Summer Thoughts

For many people, this Shabbos marks the beginning of the “Country Season.” Tens of thousands of Yidden head for the hills, to their summer homes, to what we used to call bungalows, although, by now, most are anything but.

That got me thinking. Do you ever think about where you would go if you wanted to run away from everything?

Not a vacation. Not a weekend getaway. But a place where the noise of the world cannot reach you. A place where the pace of life is measured not by deadlines and headlines, but by the rising and setting of the sun.

I have heard people say that if they ever had to run away for some reason, chas veshalom, they would head to one of those small, picturesque towns tucked away in the hills of Vermont.

I can imagine being holed up in a modest farmhouse at the end of a winding dirt road, surrounded by acres of trees, with a stream running nearby and a porch where I could sit with a sefer and a cup of coffee as the world passes by unnoticed.

I have only been to Vermont a couple of times, but each time I was there, I thought that there was something almost mythical about the place. The rolling green mountains, the village greens, the family farms that have existed for generations, the maple trees that explode into brilliant shades of red and gold every autumn. It represents a kind of America that seems to have been frozen in time - a simpler, quieter place where neighbors know each other, children play outdoors until nightfall, and people still wave as they pass on country roads.

Of course, I am not planning on moving there anytime soon. Aside from the issue of finding kosher food and a minyan, I suspect that I would miss the noise and energy of our communities more than I realize. A Jew was never meant to live alone on a mountain, disconnected from a kehillah and the warmth of other Yidden.

In any case, the pipe dream went up in a puff of smoke when I read an article from The Free Press about an Israeli woman who moved to Bristol, Vermont, a tiny town of 3,782 residents, the kind of place where, as she described it, “you let your kids run outside barefoot and leave your doors unlocked.”

As a child of the Second Intifada, she had lived with the fear of terrorism and violence. She believed that by moving to a quiet corner of rural America, she had left those anxieties behind. Vermont was supposed to be her refuge; a place far removed from the conflicts and hatred of the Middle East.

But then she found herself sitting on a folding chair at a local gathering, hearing accusations of “land theft” and chants about the “occupied land of Palestine.” In that moment, she said, she no longer believed that she was safe.

Think about that for a moment.

If antisemitism can make its way to a tiny Vermont town hidden among forests and mountains, a place where the biggest concerns should be the coming winter or the next maple harvest, then there is no corner of the world untouched by this ancient hatred.

The Jews of Europe once thought that they had found enlightened societies where they were accepted. Jews fled from one country to another searching for peace and security. In every generation, we have searched for a place where we could finally exhale and say, “Here, we will be left alone.”

History has repeatedly shown us that our ultimate security cannot come from geography. A beautiful landscape can soothe the soul. A quiet town can offer peace of mind. A mountain retreat can provide silence. But no place on earth can guarantee safety.

The only true refuge of the Jewish people has always been our connection to Hashem, our Torah, and our communities. We can appreciate the beauty of Vermont’s mountains, but our real shelter has never been found in the shadow of any mountain. It has always been beneath the wings of the Shechinah.

When we imagine escaping, we usually imagine subtraction. Fewer people. Fewer obligations. Less noise. Less tension. A small house at the edge of a forest where the only sound in the morning is the wind rustling through the trees and birds announcing the arrival of a new day.

There is something very alluring about that image. The world has become so loud. In an era of constant connection, we yearn for some time to disconnect.

While the quiet country road may be beautiful, it cannot replace the sound of a child reciting a posuk. The solitude of a mountain sunrise is inspiring, but it cannot replace the warmth of a “Gut Shabbos” exchanged between neighbors walking home from shul. A field of maple trees changing colors in autumn is breathtaking, but it cannot replace the sight of a bais medrash filled with Yidden bent over their Gemaros.

That is why there is something almost poetic about the Vermont dream collapsing under the very reality it was trying to escape. It was not only that antisemitism followed the Jewish people there. It was that the dream itself had overlooked an essential truth: A Jew does not find safety by becoming invisible.

We have tried that throughout our long golus. We have moved from country to country, from one enlightened society to another, hoping that perhaps here we could simply be another citizen, another neighbor, another person left in peace. Yet, the story has repeated itself too many times.

And yet, we endure, not because we have found the perfect corner of the earth where trouble cannot reach us, but because wherever we have gone, we have carried our home with us. A sefer on a table. A mezuzah on a doorpost. A minyan in a shul. A mother lighting Shabbos candles. A father learning with his child.

Perhaps that is the greatest irony of all: The little Vermont farmhouse hidden among the mountains seems like a refuge because it is far away from everyone. But a Yid’s greatest refuge has never been found in isolation. It has always been found in connection - to Hashem, to Torah, and to other Yidden.

The forests of Vermont may offer silence. But the sound of Torah is what has allowed us to survive every storm.

Think about the irony of what the Israeli woman was seeking. She went to Vermont because she wanted a place where her children could run barefoot on the grass and where doors remained unlocked. She was searching for innocence, a world that felt untouched by hatred and conflict. A world that would not bother her for being Jewish.

That longing is profoundly human. After centuries of wandering, persecution, and uncertainty, who could blame a Jew for dreaming of a quiet little corner of the world where history finally leaves him alone.

But perhaps that is the great lesson of our journey through golus. We do not survive because we find a place where there are no storms. We survive because we have learned how to build homes that can withstand storms wherever they arise.

Whether it is a Jewish home in a crowded apartment building in Boro Park, a small house in Monsey, a village in Europe centuries ago, or even a remote farmhouse surrounded by Vermont mountains, the walls do not protect us. What protects us is what is behind those walls: Torah, tefillah, emunah, and the generations of mesorah that we carry with us.

Last week, I found myself in Boro Park, having gone there to be menachem avel the Rubashkin family upon the passing of their dear mother. Having grown up and lived in Monsey for most of my life, and now residing in Lakewood, walking down the streets of Boro Park felt a bit jarring.

The streets were alive with noise, traffic, and construction, with people of all ages moving in every direction, all close together, all in motion.

As I walked, I noticed a sign indicating a bais medrash and stepped inside, simply to sit for a moment and look into a sefer. The sign read “Fultichan.” I pulled the door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened immediately - no combination, no multiple locks.

Inside was a small room with two people learning.

I had never been there before, and I do not know if I will ever be there again. But I walked in and felt at home.

A Yid walks into a bais medrash and feels at home, wherever it is, whatever its size, whether it holds multitudes or just two chavrusos learning a sugya. There is a familiarity there that transcends place and circumstance.

And that reminded me that I do not need to go to Vermont or the country or anywhere else to find stillness. All I need to do is step into a bais medrash, open a sefer, and I am transported to the eternal Yiddishe place of solitude, comfort, and safety.

A person can build a house at the edge of the forest and believe that he has finally escaped the world. But a Jew has never been tasked with finding a place where he can hide from history. Our task has always been to carry eternity with us as we walk through history.

There is something about a Vermont or country summer that speaks of innocence and simplicity, where life is uncomplicated and peaceful, formed from a combination of deep green mountains, wildflowers growing along the fence lines, the old country store where everyone knows each other, the gravel road disappearing into the hills, and the old pickup truck moving slowly because there is nowhere to rush.

But even a place where time seems to move more slowly, a place that looks like it belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting, cannot promise an escape from the darker currents that run through the world.

The winds blow through the valleys of the Catskills or Vermont just as they blow through every other place on earth. The difference is not whether there is a storm outside. The difference is whether there is a flame burning inside.

And perhaps that is why, after all the centuries of exile, a small shtiebel in a noisy city can be a greater refuge than a cabin on a dusty country road.

Perhaps every person has his own Vermont.

For some, it is a bungalow in the mountains. For others, it is an apartment at the edge of Geulah, a house on a lake, or simply the dream of a different life where the burdens and anxieties of the present somehow cannot find us.

And perhaps every generation has its Vermont as well.

A time when it believes that the storms have finally passed. A moment when all the pieces appear to have fallen perfectly into place. The right people are in power. The dangerous enemies have been weakened. The future seems secure. We tell ourselves that the battles are behind us and that we can finally sit down on the porch, open a sefer, pour the coffee, and rest.

But history has a way of knocking on the door of even the quietest farmhouse.

Because no matter how far we run, we cannot run away from the world that Hashem placed us in. The purpose of a Jew is not to escape history, but to live through it with emunah. We are commanded to build homes, raise families, learn Torah, and serve Hashem not in a world free of uncertainty, but in a world where uncertainty is the stage upon which our bitachon is tested.

And that is a lesson we have been reminded of once again in recent months.

Everything was falling into place. Donald Trump won a landslide victory, doing away with Kamala Harris with historic flourish. He was Israel’s friend, the best anyone could hope for. He stood at Israel’s side during his first administration and promised to do so in his second. He was surrounded by Jewish people, conservative ones, and friends of the Jewish nation. As far as friends of Israel were concerned, he could do no wrong. He said and did all the right things. He was a welcome change and relief from the Biden and Obama years and their anti-Israel administrations.

Binyomin Netanyahu’s life mission has been to derail Iran’s push for nuclear weapons, but despite his many efforts and hard work, he found no allies in his campaign. And then Trump bought in. Following his reelection in November 2024, Netanyahu flew to the president-elect’s mansion in West Palm Beach and discussed with him how they would jointly attack Iran and its nuclear project.

Working together, last year at this time, the United States and Israel attacked Iran’s nuclear facilities. Trump and Netanyahu were jubilant. The Iranian threat had finally been removed. After lying about their nuclear ambitions for decades, Iran would finally not be able to continue production of a bomb. Trump was proclaimed an Israeli hero, and Jews the world over were thrilled.

But by February, Iran appeared to be on the cusp of enriching its uranium to levels necessary for bomb-making, and the Trump-Netanyahu coalition went to war against Iran once again. Commencing with the assassination of the Iranian Supreme Leader and dozens of members of the country’s leadership, their goal was to cause regime change and spark a transition to a post-theocratic government. Trump had promised the Iranian people as much, and he was coming now to make good on that pledge.

The other goals were to prevent Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons, destroy its ballistic missile capabilities, and end Iran’s ability to maintain and support its terror proxies.

Netanyahu was thrilled. He was finally achieving his life’s ambition. The American president was his best friend. They spoke every day or two and things were looking up. He was planning his reelection campaign, preparing clips of himself and Trump working together, and gathering Trump’s many complimentary quotes about his greatness, military leadership, and importance to Israel. Trump was even going to travel to Israel before the elections to campaign for his friend, Bibi.

And then, after months of bombing and achieving military victories, decimating Iran’s nuclear capability along with its navy and air force, Trump decided that he had had enough. What he thought would be a quick war was dragging on. Iran was blocking ships from transporting oil through the Strait of Hormuz, causing the price of gasoline to rise along with inflation. His threats and bravado were not cowing the Iranians, and the war was quite unpopular in the United States and elsewhere. He and his administration had done a poor job of selling it and explaining to the American people the need for the war.

The whole thing fell apart. All the words of Chazal cautioning us not to trust in governments or people came back to haunt us. All the lessons we have learned over the years once again became so real. Everything we have learned about lev melochim vesorim b’Yad Hashem is smacking us in the face. Eretz asher Hashem Elokecha doresh osah, tomid einei Hashem Elokecha bah, meireishis hashanah v’ad acharis shanah. If you follow Hashem’s directions, His chukim umishpotim, He will be there for you, protecting you, suppressing your enemies, and keeping your friends your friends.

But when you disrespect Him, when you do not follow His laws, when you mock His Torah and those who dedicate their lives to it, then things begin to crumble. And that is exactly what happened. When you take credit for military miracles, when you say, “Kochi v’otzem yodi asah li es hachayil hazeh,” then He says, “I will leave you to your own devices and see how far you will get.”

And as the world found out on October 7, that is not too far. And now that lesson has been repeated again. Your best friend, colleague, ally, and protector now mocks you, criticizes you, and curses you, and his vice president speaks with open contempt, if not outright hatred, toward you and your country.

President Trump tells you that if not for him, the State of Israel would not exist. If you do not acknowledge Hashem’s role in your state, then you leave a vacuum, and the American president is as eligible to fill that role as anyone else. He has been a good friend and dependable ally, and he deserves appreciation.

Israel is the land of the Jews, our haven in a sea of hatred, but when its leadership turns its back on Hashem, His Torah, and those faithful to Him, things begin to collapse.

Overnight, the man who fashions himself as master of the art of the deal was out-negotiated by a couple of lunatics with their backs against the wall, quickly running out of money and power. Overnight, the best friend of Israel, the commander-in-chief whose army worked shoulder to shoulder in unprecedented unity with Israel’s forces, jointly confronting the world’s pariah state, which views them as the Big Satan and the Little Satan, was convinced that Iran’s leaders wanted to turn over a new leaf and function as a rational country.

After dropping tens of thousands of bombs across Iran, and annihilating its navy and air force, most of its drones and missiles, and the capacity to manufacture more of them, and causing hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of damage, the United States gave the regime a lifeline.

What happened? What changed? Observers wondered. Israel and its supporters scratched their collective heads. Commentators commented and pontificators pontificated. Republicans bit their tongues, and Democrats gleefully wagged theirs in a fit of “I told you sos” over the president’s seeming capitulation.

It is only a memorandum, not a deal. There is much negotiating ahead and nothing is definite. But a few things are clear: We are not in charge, nothing happens by itself, and nothing can be taken for granted.

When the war began, people the world over were fearful, and everyone immediately began davening and saying Tehillim. As time went on, they got used to the situation. Besides, Trump and Netanyahu were in charge. Their armies, the two most powerful in the world, were doing what they do best and crushing Iran. What could go wrong?

We slackened off. We lost sight of the One Who really runs everything and thought that the ruination of the Iranian regime was a done deal. Israel would be granted years of peace. Iran’s days as a terror paymaster would be ended, and its proxies would collapse. The Arab Gulf states would have nothing more to fear and would line up to make peace with Israel.

Well, it is not yet over, but the war seems to be heading toward a surprise ending. Our tefillos have the ability to change the outcome. Our devotion to Torah can bring about the change. Our mesirus nefesh for Torah has the power of the parah adumah to result in taharah and kedusha.

This week, we lain, “Zos haTorah, odom ki yomus b’ohel.” The secret of our existence, the secret of our success, is to go beyond our abilities, to stretch ourselves physically and financially for Torah. By doing so, we succeed, and our people succeed along with us.

• • • • •

Perhaps, one day, I will still make my way to that little farmhouse in Vermont.

Perhaps I will still sit on that porch as the morning mist rises from the stream, a cup of coffee warming my hands, a sefer open before me, listening to the whisper of the trees as they sway in the gentle breeze.

But the peace I imagined finding there was never hidden among the hills or waiting for me at the end of some forgotten dirt road.

A Yid can sit in the middle of a city, surrounded by noise and commotion, with enemies gathering at his borders and the nations of the world changing their loyalties overnight, and he can still possess a tranquility that no mountain retreat can provide. Much the same, a person can sit in the most beautiful corner of the world and be filled with fear if he believes that his fate rests in the hands of presidents, generals, and governments.

The lesson of these days is one our people have learned and relearned throughout thousands of years of history. We appreciate those whom Hashem sends to help us. We express gratitude to friends who stand by us. We use the tools that Hashem places in our hands - diplomacy, military strength, wisdom, and strategy.

But we must never confuse the messenger with the One Who sent him.

The same Hand that directs the flow of a quiet Vermont stream directs the currents of history. The same Creator Who paints the leaves in the forests of New England decides the fate of empires, moves the hearts of kings, and determines whether a friend remains a friend and whether an enemy loses his power.

“Zos haTorah, odom ki yomus b’ohel.” The secret of Yiddishe existence is not our ability to find a place where the world cannot touch us. It is our ability to enter the ohel of Torah, to live by it, and to sacrifice for it.

After thousands of years of wandering through every kind of landscape - deserts and ghettos, palaces and prisons, prosperity and persecution - the Jewish people are still here. We never found our Vermont.

We found something far greater.

The ohel of Torah.

The nations search for their security in treaties and alliances. Empires trust in their armies and economies. We have our own refuge.

Not a farmhouse at the end of a winding road.

Not a president in Washington.

Not a military coalition or a diplomatic victory.

Our refuge has always been, and will always be, the Ribbono Shel Olam.

He is always available to us, wherever we are. We do not have to run away anywhere. We do not need to find quaint towns and cottages. “Ki karov eilecha hadovor me’od beficha uvilvovcha.” Personal tranquility is a choice that can be achieved by stepping into the ohel haTorah, the Ohel Hashem, figuratively and literally. It is always open, always available.

The light is always on.

May we all be zoche to the ultimate tranquility and peace with the coming of Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov mamash.

The Honor Trap

Among the many tragic episodes recorded in the Torah, few are as perplexing as the story of Korach. Korach was no ordinary man. Chazal tell us that he was exceptionally wealthy, exceptionally wise, and among the distinguished leaders of Klal Yisroel. He witnessed the greatest revelations in history. He stood at Har Sinai, accepting the Torah and hearing Hashem’s voice call out. He experienced Yetzias Mitzrayim. He lived among a generation that saw open miracles daily.

We learn the parsha and wonder how a person such as he could fall so low.

The Mishnah in Pirkei Avos teaches that any dispute conducted lesheim Shomayim, for the sake of Heaven, will endure, while one that is not for the sake of Heaven will not endure. The Mishnah then presents the ultimate example of a dispute not for the sake of Heaven: “The dispute of Korach and his congregation.”

What was the root of Korach’s rebellion?

The Torah hints at the answer. Korach could not accept the position that had been given to others. Moshe Rabbeinu was chosen as the leader of Klal Yisroel. Aharon had been selected for the kehunah. Elitzofon ben Uziel was appointed nosi. Korach looked around and saw honor bestowed upon others, and he was sickened.

People possess many different types of taavos and desires. Some are relatively harmless, while others can be profoundly destructive. The Mishnah in Pirkei Avos teaches, in the name of Rav Elazar Hakappar, that “hakinah v’hataavah v’hakavod, jealousy, lust, and the pursuit of honor, remove a person from the world.”

Of the three, the pursuit of honor is often the most destructive. A person recognizes physical temptations and understands the dangers they pose, but the desire for honor is so blinding that it often disguises itself as virtue. People convince themselves that they seek leadership for the sake of a worthy cause, to enable them to influence for the public good, or recognition to advance an important goal. In reality, it is the craving for honor that becomes all-consuming, blinding a person to reason and driving him to sacrifice everything in its pursuit.

Korach is a perfect illustration. He possessed virtually everything a person could desire, yet he could not accept that the honor he coveted was instead bestowed upon others. His obsession with attaining a position that was not his clouded his judgment and led him to challenge Moshe Rabbeinu. The honor he sought became the cause of his destruction, dragging him down along with his followers and leaving Korach as the Torah’s enduring symbol of how the lust for power can consume even the greatest of men.

Korach convinced himself that his rebellion was noble. He spoke in the language of equality and justice. “For the entire congregation is holy,” he declared. Yet, beneath the lofty rhetoric was a personal grievance. He wanted the position that had been given to someone else.

The Torah demonstrates how destructive this impulse can become. Korach did not merely challenge Moshe. He turned people against one another. Ultimately, the earth itself opened and swallowed him and his followers.

Chazal ask, “Korach, who was wise, what did he see to pursue this foolish endeavor?” The question itself is telling. His downfall was not due to ignorance. It was due to desire. Once a person’s ambitions take control, wisdom becomes powerless, and the desire becomes all-consuming.

The Mesillas Yeshorim addresses this taavah in the eleventh chapter, where he discusses the trait of nekiyus, the obligation to cleanse ourselves of subtle character flaws that ensnare people without them realizing it. Among the most dangerous of these flaws, he writes, is the pursuit of honor.

At first glance, honor seems harmless. Unlike wealth or physical pleasures, it appears noble and refined. A person may convince himself that he seeks a position of influence only to help others, leadership only to serve a worthy cause, or prominence only to advance a noble goal. Yet, the Mesillas Yeshorim warns that the desire for honor possesses extraordinary power to distort judgment and destroy people.

He writes that countless people have been destroyed by their quest for authority and recognition. The craving for honor can be so overwhelming that a person will sacrifice wisdom, relationships, principles, and even his spiritual wellbeing in order to satisfy it.

The Mesillas Yeshorim states that the desire for honor can never be satisfied. No matter how much a person possesses, he focuses on what remains beyond his reach. Instead of appreciating his blessings, he becomes consumed by the success of others. Instead of serving Hashem with joy, he becomes preoccupied with status and recognition. He says that a person can overcome his yeitzer hora for money or other enjoyments, but someone who desires honor can never overcome the awful feeling he experiences when he sees someone else possessing more than he does.

To illustrate the point, the Mesillas Yeshorim cites Korach. He had everything a person could want, yet it wasn’t enough. There was someone with a higher position than his, and that drove him past the breaking point.

The Mesillas Yeshorim’s words are as relevant today as they were when they were written centuries ago. Careers, families, communities, and institutions have been fractured because individuals became more concerned with prominence than purpose. The desire to be important becomes more important than doing what is right—or anything else.

Moshe fled from honor. Korach pursued it. Moshe became the greatest leader our nation has ever known. Korach became a symbol of the destruction that results when ambition is allowed to eclipse humility.

The person who seeks honor rarely finds satisfaction, while the person who seeks to serve Hashem discovers a greatness far beyond anything honor can provide.

There is a well-known, oft-repeated story about the Chofetz Chaim that captures the Torah’s perspective on leadership and greatness.

A visitor once came to Radin and entered the humble home of the Chofetz Chaim. Looking around, he was astonished. The furnishings were sparse. There was little evidence that one of the most revered Jews in the world lived there.

“Rebbe,” the visitor asked, “where is your furniture?”

The Chofetz Chaim responded with a question of his own.

“And where is yours?”

The man explained that he was merely traveling and had only temporary accommodations.

The Chofetz Chaim smiled and replied, “I, too, am only traveling.”

The Chofetz Chaim understood something that Korach had forgotten. This world is temporary. Positions are temporary. Titles are temporary. Influence is temporary. A person can spend his life fighting for honor and authority only to discover that both disappear with the passage of time. The only lasting achievements are the Torah, mitzvos, and maasim tovim that accompany a person into eternity.

The Chofetz Chaim fled from honor, viewing it as a poison that must be avoided. So many of our gedolim were exceedingly humble, and many stories are told of their remarkable humility.

Nations have been plunged into war because leaders could not relinquish authority. Families have been torn apart over questions of status and inheritance. Communities have been divided because individuals sought positions of prominence.

The pursuit of honor has toppled countless people who otherwise possessed remarkable talents and virtues.

Chazal teach that honor pursues those who flee from it and flees from those who pursue it. The more desperately a person seeks recognition, the more elusive it becomes. The less he thinks about himself, the more genuinely respected he becomes.

Moshe Rabbeinu embodied this principle. No one ever sought leadership less than Moshe. When Hashem appeared to him at the sneh, he repeatedly resisted accepting the role. He viewed himself as unworthy and begged Hashem to send someone else. Yet, no leader in history attained greater stature than Moshe. Because he did not seek greatness for himself, Hashem entrusted him with the greatest responsibility imaginable.

Korach was the exact opposite. He pursued greatness relentlessly, subjecting all of Klal Yisroel to a bitter machlokes in his bid for honor. In the end, not only did he fail to attain honor, but he lost everything.

Every person has a unique mission in this world that only he can fulfill. Hashem provides each individual with the talents, strengths, and abilities necessary to accomplish that mission.

Rav Yisroel Bunim Schreiber, whom we featured in these pages several weeks ago, is currently visiting the United States on behalf of Keren Olam HaTorah. Wherever he goes, he captivates bnei Torah with his remarkable shiurim, delivered with astonishing mastery and clarity, seemingly without preparation and often without opening a single sefer.

Following one such shiur last week, Rav Schreiber shared a powerful message of chizuk. He said that if every person would focus on becoming the best version of himself, everyone would succeed. The problem, however, is that people spend their lives trying to become someone else. Since they can never truly be that other person, they end up frustrated and disappointed.

To illustrate the point, Rav Schreiber related a story about the Chazon Ish.

Someone once approached the Chazon Ish and remarked that it was well-known that the Vilna Gaon slept only two hours a day, taking a series of brief naps of fifteen minutes each over the course of twenty-four hours. The man then asked, “If that was the case, how much did the great Amoraim Abaye and Rava sleep?”

To most of us, that sounds like a reasonable question.

The Chazon Ish’s response, however, was profound.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe they slept eight hours a day.”

The point is that every person is given the particular strengths, abilities, and circumstances he needs in order to fulfill his unique purpose in life. One person’s path is not another’s. One person’s strengths are not another’s. Success comes not from imitating someone else, not from trying to be someone else, but from developing the gifts Hashem has given us and using them to accomplish our own mission.

Korach’s mistake was that he stopped focusing on his own mission and became consumed with Aharon’s mission. Instead of appreciating the extraordinary role that Hashem had given him, he obsessed over the role that had been given to someone else.

A person receives Hashem’s brachos but cannot enjoy them because he is focused on what someone else has. He is blessed with wealth, but it’s not enough, because the person down the block has more than he does. The person down the block isn’t happy with his wealth because further down the block is someone with even more money, a bigger house, and a nicer car. And it never ends, because that person also isn’t happy. He can’t get over the fact that Elon Musk is worth a trillion dollars and he only has fifty million.

Hashem blessed each of them with more success than they ever dreamed they could achieve, but they aren’t happy because they covet someone else’s prominence. A person has unique gifts, but fixates on talents that belong to someone else.

Comparison is too often the thief of contentment.

Perhaps this is why the Torah places such emphasis on humility. Humility does not mean that a person denies his talents. It means recognizing that every gift, every position, and every opportunity comes from Hashem. A humble person is able to celebrate another person’s success because he understands that every individual has a unique mission. He does not view life as a competition, but rather as a lifelong mission to maximize the strengths Hashem gave him in pursuit of the proper purpose.

Korach could not accept that lesson. He saw another person’s appointment as his own demotion. He measured his worth by comparing himself to others. Once he adopted that perspective, resentment became inevitable.

This challenge is not limited to leaders or public figures. It exists within everyone who doesn’t study mussar and whose life doesn’t revolve around Torah. People seek recognition, honor, and respect. People compare themselves to neighbors, colleagues, relatives, and friends.

The story of Korach reminds us that such thinking is spiritually dangerous. Happiness begins when a person embraces the role Hashem has assigned him rather than coveting the role assigned to someone else.

The greatest people in Jewish history were not those who sought power. They were those who sought purpose. They were willing to lead when necessary, but they never confused leadership with personal honor and glory.

The gedolei hador throughout the generations have demonstrated this. Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach became the gadol hador after spending decades cocooned in the bais medrash, struggling over sugyos of Shas. Similarly, Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv spent his days and nights learning in a small locked bais medrash in Meah Shearim. The furthest thing from their minds was assuming power and control or seeking kavod and recognition for their Torah greatness.

As we learn Parshas Korach, we are reminded that the desire for power can blind even the wisest of men. It can transform talent into destruction and potential into tragedy. The antidote is humility, gratitude, and the recognition that every person has a place uniquely designed for him.

Korach wanted someone else’s position and lost his own. Moshe accepted his mission with humility and became Moshe Rabbeinu.

The earth swallowed Korach, but his message remains buried beneath the surface of every human heart. Whenever we feel jealousy at another’s success, resentment at another’s prominence, or frustration that we have not received the recognition we think we deserve, the challenge of Korach reappears.

And whenever we respond with humility, gratitude, and faith that Hashem has given us what we need for the role we are meant to play, we achieve what Korach never could.

May we all be zoche to fulfill our missions in life, to help others pursue theirs, and thereby find success and happiness in our lives while helping prepare the world for the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our day.

The Power of Perspective

This week, in Parshas Shelach, we learn about the saga of the meraglim, which is one of the most tragic episodes in the Torah. Standing at the border of Eretz Yisroel, the Jewish people, who had experienced Yetzias Mitzrayim, Krias Yam Suf, and the many nissim in the midbar, were poised to enter the land promised to their forefathers. The journey from Mitzrayim was nearly complete. Yet, instead of moving forward with confidence, the nation was overcome by fear, and an entire generation lost the opportunity to enter the Land.

They sent meraglim to scout out the land, and the meraglim returned with a frightening report. They reported facts as they saw them. Much of what they said was true. The cities were fortified. The inhabitants were powerful. The challenges were real. But their mission was a historic failure, for which we still pay the price until this very day. At the root of their failure was that they viewed everything during their mission through a lens of negativity.

Where they should have seen opportunity, they saw danger. Where they should have seen Hashem’s promise, they saw obstacles. Where they should have seen a land flowing with milk and honey, they saw imposing giants and fortified cities they believed they would not be able to capture.

Yehoshua and Koleiv saw the same landscape, the same cities, and the same giants as the other ten shluchim. Yet, they came to an entirely different conclusion. While the other meraglim focused on obstacles, Yehoshua and Koleiv focused on possibilities.

Where the meraglim saw reasons for despair, Yehoshua and Koleiv saw reasons for confidence. Most importantly, while the other meraglim measured the situation according to human limitations, Yehoshua and Koleiv viewed it through the prism of emunah, through the knowledge that Hashem had promised this land to them and told them that it was good. For centuries, the bnei Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov had looked forward to meriting entry into the land.

The difference between them was not what they saw. The difference was how they saw it.

This lesson that we learn from this sorry experience extends far beyond the events of the desert. Life presents each of us with challenges, disappointments, and uncertainties. Every day, each of us is presented with a choice. We can choose to focus on what is wrong, on what we lack, and on the difficulties we face, or we can focus on what is right. We can look for the good, and recognize and appreciate blessings. We can see problems or we can see the opportunities that are hidden in every situation.

The negative approach is often easier. Complaints come naturally. Criticism requires little effort. Finding fault in people and circumstances can become a habit. But the Torah teaches us through the story of the meraglim that such a mindset can distort reality itself. When a person constantly searches for what is wrong, that is all he sees.

This applies not only to how we view events, but also to how we view other people. Every person has shortcomings. Every person makes mistakes. If we search for faults, we will certainly find them. And if we search for virtues, strengths, and the goodness that exists within every Jew, we will find that as well.

Everything that occurs is guided by Hashem. Even when we do not understand His plan, we know that He is directing the world with wisdom and kindness. The meraglim saw challenges and assumed disaster. Yehoshua and Koleiv saw those same challenges and trusted that Hashem’s purpose was ultimately for their benefit.

Positivity does not mean pretending that difficulties do not exist. The Torah does not ask us to ignore reality. Rather, positivity means refusing to allow difficulties to define reality. It means recognizing challenges while also recognizing Hashem’s ability to help us overcome them. It means viewing challenges as nisyonos, placed there to test us and provide impetus for self-improvement and aliyah.

A positive person lives a fundamentally different life than a negative one.

Negative people tend to become trapped by their circumstances. Every setback becomes a disaster. Every disappointment becomes a reason for discouragement. Every challenge appears larger than it really is. Their focus on problems drains their energy and clouds their judgment.

Positive people are not immune to difficulties, but they approach them differently. Because of their emunah and bitachon, they know that solutions are always possible and they search for them. Because they ask for and anticipate Hashem’s help, they maintain hope despite the situation. Their outlook gives them the strength to persevere where others give up.

This is true in our relationships as well.

When we focus on the faults of others, resentment grows. Every interaction becomes an opportunity for criticism. Small imperfections become magnified until they overshadow all the good that exists.

But when we make an effort to notice the strengths of others, our relationships flourish. A spouse feels appreciated. A child gains confidence. Friends feel valued. Communities become stronger. Looking for the good in people often brings out the good in them.

Many of the greatest leaders possessed this ability. They saw potential where others saw weakness. They recognized greatness hidden beneath flaws. They understood that encouragement accomplishes far more than constant criticism.

Positivity also transforms the way we experience life itself.

Every person receives countless gifts from Hashem each day—health, family, friendships, opportunities, and innumerable acts of Divine kindness. We can either focus on the good we have or on what is missing, what we would like to have but do not. By focusing on what is not good, we become downcast and sad, and we lose sight of the good that we have.

A positive perspective creates gratitude. Gratitude creates happiness. And happiness creates the emotional strength needed to navigate life’s inevitable challenges.

The Chovos Halevavos teaches that recognizing Hashem’s kindness is one of the foundations of avodas Hashem. A person who constantly notices blessings naturally develops a deeper appreciation for Hakadosh Boruch Hu, Who provides for them. Positivity is not merely a personality trait. It is a powerful form and indication of spiritual growth. The more Torah and mussar a person learns, the more spiritual he becomes, the closer he feels to Hashem, and the more he appreciates His goodness and kindness.

The consequences of the meraglim were so severe because their negativity did not remain confined to their own hearts. It spread throughout the camp. Fear became contagious. Discouragement became contagious. Despair became contagious. The people listened to them and became saddened, bemoaning their fate as they fretted about the future. Chazal (Taanis 29a) recount that Hashem chastened them for crying senseless tears and declared that He would give them something to cry about for generations to come. Indeed, we are still crying over the churban until this day. We are still suffering because of the sin of the meraglim.

My old friend, Rav Mordechai Simcha zt”l, was always a fountain of bright and witty comments. As a play on his name, he would often say, “Simcha is contagious.” Indeed, it is. Optimism is also contagious, as are confidence and bitachon. One person’s positive outlook can inspire an entire family, a community, or even a generation.

Take Reb Shalom Mordechai Rubashkin, for example. His faith inspired Klal Yisroel and still does. He had every reason to give up and accept his fate, and very few rational reasons to think that he would ever achieve vindication and freedom. Yet, because of his deep-seated emunah, he was able to view his situation differently. He viewed what he was going through as a nisayon, not as a fait accompli, and Hashem rewarded him. Klal Yisroel rejoiced with him when his faith was rewarded. His experience still serves as a chizuk to people experiencing periods of nisayon not to become traumatized and to maintain their faith that Hakadosh Boruch Hu is directing everything min haShomayim.

In every situation, we have a choice. We can be like the meraglim, searching for reasons why things cannot succeed. Or we can be like Yehoshua, Koleiv, and ehrliche Yidden throughout the ages, searching for reasons to trust, to hope, and to move forward.

The Torah’s message is not that life is easy. It is that life looks very different when viewed through the eyes of a maamin.

When we train ourselves to see the good in people, we become kinder. When we train ourselves to see the good in circumstances, we become stronger. When we train ourselves to see the good in our lives, we become happier. And when we train ourselves to see Hashem’s hand behind everything that happens, we discover a deeper sense of peace and purpose.

The meraglim saw giants and lost heart. Yehoshua and Koleiv saw Hashem and found courage.

Their lesson continues to guide us today: Look for the good. Focus on the blessings. Believe in the possibilities. Trust in Hashem. Very often, what we find depends on what we are looking for.

Gedolim often possessed an extraordinary ability to see the good in situations and in people where others saw only problems. Famous are the stories about Rav Levi Yitzchok of Berditchev. He was renowned for always finding merit in people.

Typical is the story told about the baal ha’agolah who was greasing the wheels of his wagon while wearing his tallis and tefillin. Most people would have been shocked by the apparent lack of respect. Rav Levi Yitzchok, however, looked heavenward and said, “Ribbono Shel Olam, see how precious Your children are. Even while occupied with their work, they refuse to separate themselves from mitzvos.”

Others saw a fault. He saw a virtue.

That was not naïveté. He was choosing to focus on what was admirable rather than what was lacking.

There are plenty of practical examples.

Two people lose a business opportunity. One spends months dwelling on what might have been. He becomes bitter and discouraged. The other is disappointed as well, but he believes that if Hashem closed one door, another will open. He moves forward and eventually discovers opportunities that he would never have found otherwise.

The external event is identical. The internal response changes everything.

The same is true in family life. A parent can focus on a child’s weaknesses and spend years being frustrated. Or he can focus on the child’s strengths and help the child blossom. Every experienced educator knows that children often become what others believe they can become. Positivity does not merely change how we see people. It changes how they see themselves.

We are currently in the season of Siddur and Chumash parties. I merited attending Chumash parties for two of my grandchildren recently, one last Sunday and one this Sunday. The pride the rabbeim took in their young charges was evident as they exuded positivity and joy, and the children, in turn, shone as they sang their songs, reviewed pesukim, and rose in their crowns to accept their Chumashim.

The confidence of the rebbi is reflected in the children, just as the light of the sun is reflected by the moon, brightening and casting light upon a dark night. Positivity and optimism are what enable us to succeed and thrive in a world that contains much darkness and sorrow.

Positivity is not simply about feeling happier. It is about seeing the world more accurately. The negative person sees only the obstacle and misses the opportunity. He sees the flaw and misses the virtue. He sees only today’s difficulty and misses tomorrow’s blessing. The positive person sees the challenge as well, but he also sees Hashem’s hand guiding events toward a purpose he may not yet understand.

We live in a time of hester, when Hashem is hidden, and we do not always see the brocha, but we must know that it is there and that we are not alone.

The meraglim were not ordinary people. Chazal teach that they were distinguished leaders, “roshei Bnei Yisroel.” Their failure reminds us that intelligence and greatness alone do not guarantee proper perspective. A person can be knowledgeable, accomplished, and sincere, yet still allow fear, bias, and negativity to distort his view of reality.

Yehoshua and Koleiv possessed something invaluable: the ability to see beyond the immediate nisayon and focus on the larger picture. They understood that the question was not whether there were giants in the land, but whether Hashem had promised them the land. With that attitude and perspective, everything else fell into place.

That remains one of the great challenges of life. We often become consumed by the “giants” in front of us—the problems, setbacks, worries, and uncertainties. We can spend so much time analyzing the obstacles that we lose sight of the blessings, opportunities, and Hashgocha Protis surrounding us.

A positive outlook rooted in emunah does not deny the existence of giants. It simply remembers that Hashem is bigger than the giants.

I have written previously about the time I was visiting my rebbi, Rav Avrohom Yehoshua Soloveitchik, and he inquired about the welfare of one of his talmidim. I told him, “Es geit em shver. He has it hard.” He quickly responded, “Bei di Ribono Shel Olam, iz gornit shver. Nothing is hard for Hashem.”

That has to be the way we view and deal with times of nisayon, when things are rough.

The meraglim foresaw tough battles ahead that could not be won. Thus, they saw a land that could not be conquered. Yehoshua and Koleiv did not let what they saw impress or frighten them, because they knew that bei di Ribono Shel Olam, iz gornit shver.

Yehoshua and Koleiv saw a future that could be achieved. Their vision built the future of Klal Yisroel. The people who leave the deepest impact on their families, communities, and friends are often those who have learned this lesson well. They are the ones who encourage rather than criticize, who look for strengths rather than weaknesses, who search for solutions rather than dwell on problems, and who remind others that no situation is beyond Hashem’s help.

In a world where negativity often comes easily, choosing to see the good may be one of the greatest forms of avodas Hashem. It allows us to appreciate Hashem’s blessings and face life’s challenges with confidence and serenity.

We do not merely live according to the world we see. To a large extent, we live according to the way we choose to see it. May we merit to view the world with the eyes of Yehoshua and Koleiv—eyes of faith, gratitude, optimism, and trust in Hashem.

Most of us are not going to be sent to scout a land before conquering it. But every day, we “spy out” the circumstances of our own lives. We look at our families, our communities, our finances, our health, our challenges, and our future. Then we decide what those facts mean.

The meraglim looked at facts and concluded, “We cannot do it.”

Yehoshua and Koleiv looked at the same facts and concluded, “With Hashem’s help, we can.”

That distinction exists in every generation.

The meraglim were not punished for seeing giants. There really were giants. They were punished for allowing the giants to become the whole story. They were punished for seeing themselves and their abilities as grasshoppers, “k’chagovim hoyinu b’eineihem.” They saw the obstacles and lost sight of Hashem. Yehoshua and Koleiv also saw the obstacles, but they saw them in the context of the larger reality of Hashem’s promise, Hashem’s protection, and Hashem’s plan.

Negativity often works the same way. It takes a difficulty and turns it into the entire picture. Positivity does not ignore the difficulty. It places it in its proper perspective.

Another angle is that negativity tends to be self-fulfilling. The generation that said, “We cannot enter the land,” ultimately did not enter the land. Yehoshua and Koleiv, who believed they could, did.

A person who constantly says, “I can’t,” “It won’t work,” or, “Nothing ever changes,” often stops trying. A person who says, “This is difficult, but with siyata diShmaya it can be done,” will persevere until he succeeds.

Positive people often feel better, accomplish more, build stronger relationships, inspire others, and navigate hardships more effectively because they are not paralyzed by pessimism. For someone who knows that Hashem runs the world, that He loves His children, and that everything He does has purpose, optimism is not wishful thinking. It is a natural consequence of faith.

The meraglim looked at Eretz Yisroel and asked, “How can we possibly succeed?”

Yehoshua and Koleiv looked at Eretz Yisroel and asked, “If Hashem wants us there, how can we not succeed?”

Those two questions continue to shape the way people approach life today.

The situation in Eretz Yisroel is not simple. There are many problems, both internal and external. The Torah community is being targeted as never before and finds itself in a matzav nora, a terribly serious situation.

Gedolei Yisroel traveled from there this week to inspire and appeal to us to join them in their battle for Torah, to believe, to contribute, and to have the positivity and fortitude of faith, of emunah and bitachon, to do what we can to overcome the darkness of golus, and know that if we withstand the nisayon, we will merit the geulah sheleimah bekarov.

Witnessing Eternity

Those at the Adirei HaTorah event on Sunday participated in something extraordinary.

They saw tens of thousands of bnei Torah gathered together. They saw roshei yeshiva, rabbonim, yungeleit, baalei batim, fathers and sons. They heard singing, felt excitement, and sensed that they were part of something historic.

But there are some people who would see much more than a gathering.

They would see a miracle.

Imagine a Holocaust survivor entering the stadium.

He looks across the sea of faces and struggles to comprehend what he is seeing. Everywhere he turns are young men devoted to Torah learning. Tens of thousands of people who have come together for no purpose of personal gain, entertainment, or recognition. They assembled for one reason, to honor the Torah and those who dedicate their lives to studying and living by it.

To many, it is inspiring.

To him, it is almost unimaginable.

He remembers a different world.

He remembers the great Torah centers of Europe. Warsaw, Vilna, Lublin, Pressburg, Slabodka, Mir, Kletzk, Telz, Ponovezh and hundreds of towns and villages whose very air seemed filled with Torah. He remembers botei medrash that hummed day and night, yeshivos overflowing with talmidim, and communities whose lives revolved around Torah.

Then came the destruction.

The Nazis did not merely seek to murder Jews. They sought to eradicate Judaism. They burned seforim, destroyed yeshivos, murdered rabbonim, roshei yeshiva and talmidim, and attempted to sever a chain stretching back to Har Sinai.

The survivor remembers standing amid the ruins and wondering whether that chain had been broken forever.

He remembers the ashes.

He remembers the silence.

He remembers a world in which entire communities vanished almost overnight.

Who could have imagined then what would come next?

Who could have imagined that less than a century later, there would be gatherings of tens of thousands of bnei Torah in America?

Who could have imagined stadiums filled not for sports, not for politics, not for entertainment, but solely for kavod haTorah?

A survivor would not simply see a crowd.

He would see the grandchildren of those who never had the opportunity to grow old.

He would see the dreams of murdered parents and grandparents walking among the living.

He would see proof that the Jewish people possess a resilience that defies every law of history.

Most nations celebrate military victories, economic achievements, or political triumphs.

The Jewish people fill stadiums to celebrate Torah.

A survivor would understand the significance of that better than anyone.

He witnessed what happens when Jews lose everything. Homes can be confiscated. Businesses can be destroyed. Entire communities can be wiped out.

Yet one thing endured.

The Torah.

The Nazis believed that they were burying the future of the Jewish people.

Instead, they planted seeds.

From the remnants emerged new yeshivos. From displaced persons camps emerged future roshei yeshiva, rabbonim, and teachers. Survivors crossed oceans carrying little more than faith, memories, and an unwavering commitment to rebuild.

Today, their descendants fill botei medrash across the globe.

Every young man learning a blatt Gemara is a declaration that the Jewish story continues.

Every yeshiva is a monument greater than any structure of stone.

Every child learning Alef-Bais is a victory over those who sought to extinguish us.

There is another person whose eyes would fill with tears upon entering the Adirei HaTorah event.

Not a survivor of Europe, but a Torah Jew who lived in America during the 1930s and 1940s.

He remembers a very different America.

Today we speak about the flourishing Torah world in the United States as though it were inevitable.

It was anything but.

In those years, many observers—within and outside the Orthodox community—were convinced that traditional Judaism had little future in America.

The challenges seemed overwhelming.

Shabbos observance often came at the cost of employment. Day schools were scarce. Yeshivos struggled to survive. Children of immigrants rapidly assimilated. The prevailing assumption was that America could provide economic opportunity, but never become a true home for Torah.

Europe was where Torah flourished.

America was where it would fade away.

Even many sincere Torah Jews feared that Orthodoxy might survive only as a small and shrinking remnant.

Had you told someone in those years that one day tens of thousands of bnei Torah would gather in a packed stadium to celebrate Torah learning, he would have thought that you were describing a fantasy.

A stadium?

Filled with lomdei Torah?

In America?

The very idea would have seemed impossible.

Imagine bringing such a Jew to Adirei HaTorah.

He would look around in astonishment.

Not because he had never seen a large crowd, but because he had spent a lifetime hearing that such a crowd could never exist.

Every face would refute the predictions.

Every yeshiva represented would disprove the experts.

Every voice joining in song would testify that Torah had not merely survived in America, but had flourished beyond anyone’s expectations.

The small yeshivos that struggled to keep their doors open became thriving institutions.

The handful became thousands.

The thousands became tens of thousands.

What many believed could never take root on American soil became one of the greatest centers of Torah learning in the world.

Standing at Adirei HaTorah, he would realize that he is witnessing one of the greatest surprises in modern Jewish history.

The dream became reality.

In truth, these two men, the survivor from Europe and the Torah Jew from early America, are seeing the same thing.

One sees the defeat of Hitler.

The other sees the defeat of assimilation.

One remembers a world where Torah was nearly destroyed.

The other remembers a world where Torah was expected to disappear.

Both arrive at the same conclusion.

The chain was not broken.

The Torah lives.

Yet, perhaps there is an even deeper perspective.

The survivor and the American Torah pioneer would not merely be looking at a crowd. They would be looking at the fulfillment of their hopes and prayers.

For the young men filling the stadium are not merely participants in an event. They are the answer to questions that previous generations carried in their hearts.

The survivor wondered whether there would be grandchildren learning Torah.

There are.

The immigrant who struggled to keep Shabbos wondered whether his descendants would remain faithful to Yiddishkeit.

They did.

The rosh yeshiva who opened a small classroom with a handful of students wondered whether Torah would ever flourish in America.

It has.

The parents who sacrificed comfort and convenience so their children could receive a Torah education wondered whether those sacrifices would bear fruit.

The fruit is before us.

What previous generations could only dream about, this generation experiences as reality.

And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all.

When we look at a gathering such as Adirei HaTorah, we should not merely count how many people are present.

We should think about how many people stand behind them.

Behind every ben Torah are parents and grandparents who sacrificed. Behind every shteiging yungerman is a dedicated wife.

Behind every yeshiva are visionaries who built when there was little reason to believe they would succeed.

Behind every row of young men holding Gemaros are generations who carried the Torah through poverty, persecution, exile, and uncertainty.

In a sense, every seat in the stadium is occupied by more than one person.

The living fill the seats.

But surrounding them are the hopes, dreams, prayers, and sacrifices of generations past.

As the singing rises and the voices of thousands join together in honor of Torah, one can almost hear the verdict of history itself.

Those who sought to destroy us failed.

Those who predicted our decline were mistaken.

Against every calculation, every forecast, and every expectation, the Torah world has risen from the ashes, crossed oceans, taken root in new lands, and flourished beyond imagination.

The world may see a gathering.

They would see a resurrection.

The world may see a stadium.

They would see the rebuilding of a civilization.

The world may see an event.

They would see the fulfillment of a promise that has accompanied our people through every exile and every persecution: that the Torah entrusted to us at Har Sinai will never disappear from the Jewish people.

Standing amid the tens of thousands assembled for the honor of Torah, they would know that they are witnessing far more than a celebration.

They are witnessing eternity.

They tried to extinguish the flame.

Instead, it became a blazing fire.

And its light continues to illuminate the world.

Many articles about the growth of the Torah world focus on numbers — how many attendees, how many yeshivos, how many students, how many communities. Those numbers are certainly remarkable.

But what makes Adirei HaTorah so moving is that it is not really a story about quantity. It is a story about improbability.

If you had stood in Europe in 1945 amid the ruins of Jewish civilization, you would not have predicted this.

If you had stood in America in 1950, when many believed that Torah Judaism was destined to fade into history, you would not have predicted this.

If you had asked the survivors, the struggling roshei yeshiva, the rabbonim fighting off efforts to lower the mechitzah and open the parking lot, the immigrants fighting to keep Shabbos, or the parents sacrificing everything to send a child to yeshiva, they would have hoped for this, but many would have hardly dared imagine it.

That is why a gathering like Adirei HaTorah feels different. It is not merely large. It is unexpected. It represents the triumph of faith over statistics, conviction over prediction, and mesorah over the powerful currents that seemed destined to sweep it away.

Perhaps the most powerful image is not the stadium itself, but the thought of those earlier generations looking upon it.

A survivor searching the crowd for the grandchildren he feared would never exist.

A European rosh yeshiva seeing thousands of talmidim learning on a continent once thought inhospitable to Torah.

An immigrant laborer who lost job after job for Shabbos watching generations of descendants proudly living as Torah Jews.

A mother who scrimped and sacrificed to pay yeshiva tuition seeing a world where Torah education is cherished and sought after.

What would they say?

Perhaps nothing.

Perhaps they would simply stand silently and cry.

Not tears of sadness, but tears of gratitude.

Because before them would stand the answer to decades of prayers.

A living testimony that Torah is not merely preserved in books. It lives within people. It passes from parent to child, rebbi to talmid, generation to generation. And as long as that chain remains unbroken, the story of Klal Yisroel continues.

That is what makes Adirei HaTorah so powerful.

It is not only a celebration of those learning Torah today.

It is a tribute to those who made sure that there would still be Jews learning Torah today. And it is a declaration to future generations that the chain they preserved is now in our hands.

Yet, Adirei HaTorah is not merely a celebration of the past.

It is a celebration of the present.

To focus only on what was lost or what was rebuilt would be to miss the extraordinary reality standing before us.

The greatest achievement of Torah Jewry is not that Torah survived.

It is that Torah lives.

Across America and around the world, hundreds of thousands of Jews begin and end their days with Torah. Botei medrash hum from early morning until late at night. Young men devote years to serious Torah study. Baalei batim rise before dawn and remain after exhausting workdays to learn. Children fill classrooms learning Chumash, Mishnah, Gemara, and halacha. Families build homes centered around Shabbos, tefillah, chesed, and mitzvos.

This is not a museum preserving a glorious past.

It is a vibrant, living world.

The Torah celebrated at Adirei HaTorah is not merely the Torah learned by previous generations.

It is the Torah being learned today.

At this very moment, somewhere, a father is learning with his child. Somewhere, a rebbi is teaching a class. Somewhere, a chavrusa is struggling over a difficult Tosafos. Somewhere, a young boy is reciting Alef-Beis. Somewhere, a young girl is learning what it means to live a life of kedusha and emunah.

The chain continues to grow.

And perhaps that is what makes the gathering so remarkable.

The attendees are not gathering around a memory.

They are gathering around a reality.

The world often measures success through wealth, power, fame, or influence.

Adirei HaTorah celebrates something entirely different.

It celebrates people who dedicate themselves to understanding Hashem’s wisdom.

It celebrates lives shaped by Torah values.

It celebrates parents who sacrifice for Torah education, teachers who devote themselves to their students, communities built upon chesed, and individuals who strive each day to become better servants of Hashem.

In an age captivated by celebrities, athletes, entertainers, and influencers, tens of thousands gather to honor lomdei Torah.

What does that say about a people?

It says that despite all the changes in the world, despite the distractions and pressures of modern life, Torah remains at the center of Jewish existence.

The significance of Adirei HaTorah is not merely that tens of thousands attend.

It is what those tens of thousands represent.

They represent countless more learning in yeshivos and kollelim here and around the world.

They represent families striving to build Torah homes.

They represent communities where Torah guides daily life.

They represent a generation that appreciates that Torah is not an artifact of the past, but the foundation of the present and the future.

That is worthy of celebration.

Not only because previous generations dreamed it would happen.

But because it is happening.

Perhaps one of the most remarkable aspects of Adirei HaTorah is that many of those who attend do not fully appreciate how remarkable it is.

Not because they are ungrateful.

But because they are young.

They were born into a world where Torah flourishes.

For them, bustling botei medrash are normal. Thriving yeshivos are normal. Torah communities stretching across cities and continents are normal. Fathers learning with their children, kollelim filled with yungeleit, schools overflowing with students, and neighborhoods built around Torah life are simply the reality they have always known.

They never experienced the world that came before.

They never stood in the shadow of the destruction of Europe.

They never heard predictions that Orthodox Judaism could not survive in America.

They never saw yeshivos struggling to keep their doors open or families fighting to preserve Torah observance against overwhelming odds.

And that is precisely what makes the moment so extraordinary.

The greatest victories eventually become so complete that people forget there was ever a battle.

The young man sitting in a packed stadium surrounded by tens of thousands of fellow bnei Torah naturally assumes that this is how things are supposed to be.

But the generations before him know differently.

They know how improbable it all is.

They know how many obstacles stood in the way.

They know how many tears were shed, how many sacrifices were made, how many tefillos were offered, and how much faith was required to bring the Torah world to this point.

The young men filling the seats see themselves as ordinary participants in an extraordinary event.

But from the perspective of history, they are the event.

They are what previous generations dreamed about.

They are the answer to prayers offered in DP camps, in struggling yeshivos, in immigrant apartments, and in homes where parents wondered whether their children and grandchildren would remain faithful to Torah.

The greatest tribute to those earlier generations is not merely remembering their sacrifices.

It is recognizing what those sacrifices produced.

Look around the stadium.

Look at the thousands of young faces.

That is the achievement.

That is the victory.

That is the miracle.

Not simply that Torah survived.

But that an entire generation has grown up taking its flourishing for granted.

And perhaps that is the most profound sight of all.

The builders of the Torah world would look upon those young men and smile.

For they would know that what was once an impossible dream has become reality.

Rav Aharon Kotler, the Ponovezher Rov, the roshei yeshiva of Telz, and the many other builders of Torah who were mocked, criticized and perceived as irrational and impractical relics are today viewed as heroes blessed with incredible foresight and spiritual strength.

It’s a new day, a new era, with new vistas, old battles won and new battles to be fought. We look forward with faith and strength, saluting today’s heroes who make it possible, leading, supporting and implementing shelo yomush haTorah hazos mipinu umipi zareinu vezera zareinu ad olam ad bias Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov beyomeinu. Amein.

Stay Out of the Mud

Iran hung over Israel, the United States, and much of the Arab world like an albatross for nearly half a century following the Islamic Revolution of 1979. During those decades, successive American presidents promised to contain the regime, restrain its ambitions, or reform its behavior. None succeeded.

Instead, the ayatollahs grew steadily bolder. They financed and armed terror proxies across the Middle East, spread terror and instability through Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis, threatened shipping lanes and oil supplies, and relentlessly advanced toward nuclear capability. As time went on, Iran entrenched itself even further.

For years, Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu warned the world about Iran and the danger it represented. Most Western leaders treated his warnings with discomfort or irritation. Barack Obama openly despised him and viewed Netanyahu as an obstacle to diplomacy. Joe Biden was similarly distrustful of him and his confrontational approach.

The first American president willing to embrace Netanyahu’s view of Iran was Donald Trump. Together with Israel, the United States eventually crossed a line previous administrations feared to cross, striking Iranian nuclear facilities during last year’s 12-Day War. More recently, they undertook a joint operation to degrade Iran and permanently remove the threat it represented.

Iran suffered devastating blows. Military infrastructure was damaged. The Ayatollah Supreme Leader and senior commanders were eliminated. Yet, authoritarian regimes possess a grim advantage over democracies: They can absorb enormous suffering without changing course. Tyrannies do not answer to public exhaustion, economic pain, or mounting casualties in the same way elected governments do. So regardless of how hard they are hit and how much they suffer, they absorb the blows and continue forward.

The military success exposed an older and more difficult problem: It is relatively easy to begin a war. The hard part is ending it.

Democracies grow weary quickly. Citizens expect results, timelines, and exits. They measure wars in news cycles and election seasons. Dictatorships measure them in generations.

That is the dilemma now confronting Trump and Netanyahu. Bombing campaigns can weaken a regime, but unless the regime collapses or surrenders completely, the question becomes: What comes next?

Trump wants to be remembered not as a wartime president trapped in another endless Middle Eastern conflict, but as a dealmaker and peacemaker. Ceasefires are declared, promises are extracted, negotiations resume, and the cycle begins again.

Trump no longer allows Netanyahu to lead him. He wants a way out, and Netanyahu does not appear to have one. Trump declared a ceasefire many weeks ago. Iran promised to keep the Strait of Hormuz open and negotiate an end to its nuclear ambitions. Neither has happened, and now a new deal is being negotiated that allows the tyrants to remain in power while once again accepting their word regarding keeping the strait open and negotiating an end to their nuclear program.

And perhaps that is the larger lesson.

Human beings often rush into conflicts, relationships, policies, and wars driven by emotion, instinct, or necessity, without seriously considering how they will conclude if events do not unfold according to plan. Beginning something is easy. Ending it wisely is much harder.

Children grab for toys without thinking beyond the moment. They see a toy and want to play with it. If another child has it or wants it and resists, the struggle escalates instinctively. Neither child can yet speak, so they grab and fight.

Maturity means developing the ability to see beyond the immediate impulse, to anticipate consequences, to understand limits, and to recognize that force alone rarely resolves complex struggles.

Growing up means learning to live with insight instead of inclination.

Not every adult fully learns that lesson.

Some people move through life reacting emotionally to every frustration, temptation, and provocation. They begin conflicts without considering how difficult they may be to end. They make decisions based on momentary feelings instead of long-term consequences.

People often rush into things emotionally, impulsively, or reactively, without considering the consequences, the endings, the costs, or whether they even have a plan.

Nations are often not much different.

Military campaigns can begin with dramatic speeches and decisive action. But once events fail to unfold according to plan, leaders suddenly discover that there is no simple exit. Democracies grow impatient. New leaders replace old ones. Temporary victories create new complications; overwhelming power cannot always produce a clean or permanent solution.

And so the world finds itself trapped in cycles that nobody fully thought through from the beginning.

But this problem is not limited to governments and wars.

In truth, people do this every day in their private lives.

A person says something sharp in anger without thinking where the argument will lead. Someone makes a reckless purchase without considering the consequences.

Human beings are often captivated by the immediate moment. We want something, so we reach for it. We are hurt, so we strike back. We are angry, so we react.

But mature thinking involves the ability to pause and ask not only, “What do I want right now?” but also, “Where will this lead?”

Wisdom is not merely the ability to act. It is the ability to think ahead.

Before speaking, before fighting, before committing, before reacting, before investing time, money, or prestige into a project, a person must ask himself: What happens if this does not work out? Where will this step that I am taking lead me? And what will this decision demand of me tomorrow, next month, or years from now?

Anyone can start something. Intelligence and maturity mean understanding the cost of finishing it, and sometimes not getting involved in the first place.

The Brisker Rov would illustrate this idea with a moshol about a young baal agalah whose wagon veered off the road and became stuck in thick mud.

The driver strained with all his might to free the wagon. He whipped his poor horses repeatedly, pushed at the wheels, and tried every trick he knew, but the wagon only sank deeper. Exhausted and frustrated, he realized that he had no choice but to trudge into town to seek advice from the veteran wagon drivers gathered at the local inn.

Spotting one baal agalah who looked particularly seasoned and wise, the young man approached him and poured out his troubles.

“I’ve tried everything,” he said desperately. “Nothing works. Tell me, how do I get out of this mess?”

The older driver listened quietly and then replied: “My dear friend, you are right. Once a wagon sinks that deeply into the mud, it is impossible to get out. But an experienced baal agalah knows that the real wisdom is not in figuring out how to escape the mud afterward, it is knowing how not to get stuck in it.”

That lesson applies not only to wagon drivers, but to nations and individuals as well.

For decades, the world allowed Iran to become entrenched, believing that somehow the problem could always be managed later through diplomacy, sanctions, threats, or limited military action. Now leaders across the world are struggling to answer a question that should have been asked long ago: How do you get out of a situation that was permitted to grow unchecked for nearly half a century?

But the lesson is not only about Iran. It is about us.

In life, people often act first and think later. They speak in anger and only afterward wonder how to repair the damage. They enter conflicts, commitments, and situations without considering where they may lead. Emotion and impulse overpower judgment and foresight.

The wise person tries to think several steps ahead before acting.

Anyone can charge ahead impulsively. Wisdom lies in seeing the mud before the wagon sinks into it.

Chazal reinforce this lesson in this week’s parsha. Rashi (6:2), quoting the Gemara (Sotah 2a), asks why the parsha of nozir immediately follows the parsha of sotah. He explains, “Loma nismicha parshas nozir l’parshas sotah, lomar loch shekol haroeh sotah b’kilkulah yazir atzmo min hayayin — Whoever sees a sotah in her disgrace should forbid himself from drinking wine.”

At first glance, the lesson seems difficult to understand. The person we are referring to has just witnessed the terrible consequences of sin. He has seen humiliation, pain, and destruction. We would think that the experience would strengthen his resolve never to sin.

Yet, Chazal understood human nature differently.

Being exposed to sin, even while witnessing its consequences, can weaken a person’s natural revulsion toward aveirah. The very exposure creates familiarity. The boundaries become less absolute. What once seemed unthinkable slowly becomes imaginable.

Therefore, the Torah says that someone who witnessed the sotah in her disgrace must take protective action. He must reinforce himself before temptation arrives. He must become a nozir and distance himself from wine so that he will not be led to spiritual failure. Transgressing an aveirah begins with small compromises, lowered defenses, and the mistaken belief that “it could never happen to me.”

That is the deeper lesson the Torah is teaching.

A wise person does not merely react once he is trapped in the mud. He thinks ahead and protects himself before reaching dangerous ground.

And if this is true regarding a sotah, where the person who committed the aveirah is disgraced and suffering the consequences, how much more so must a person be careful when surrounded by sinners who appear successful, happy, and carefree. When an aveirah is packaged attractively, when wrongdoing appears glamorous or rewarding, the danger becomes far greater.

The Torah therefore teaches us that a person must always think several steps ahead. We must know where certain roads lead, even when the beginning appears harmless or pleasurable. We must understand that aveirah always leads to kilkul.

Similarly, Chazal teach us in Pirkei Avos, “Hevei mechasheiv hefsed mitzvah keneged sechorah, usechar aveirah keneged hefseidah.”

When it feels difficult or costly to do a mitzvah, Chazal recommend thinking about the eternal reward it brings and recognizing that the temporary sacrifice is insignificant compared to the everlasting gain. And when an aveirah appears profitable, enjoyable, or enticing, think ahead to the spiritual damage, the loss, and the consequences it will inevitably bring.

The Torah is teaching us to live not by impulse, but by thought.

Sinners and fools live only in the moment, swept along by temptation, emotion, and desire. Bnei Torah are meant to live differently. A ben Torah thinks before he acts. He looks beyond the excitement of the moment and considers where a path ultimately leads before taking the first step down the road.

And no person should imagine themself immune to influence.

People often assume that they can read whatever they wish, expose themselves to questionable ideas and lifestyles, and remain untouched by them. They convince themselves that seeing improper behavior, hearing distorted attitudes, or consuming foolishness — and worse — will not affect their thinking or weaken their values.

But the Torah teaches otherwise.

Chazal understood that exposure itself changes a person. What once shocked him slowly becomes normal. What was unacceptable gradually loses its ugliness. The yeitzer hora rarely succeeds through sudden collapse. It works slowly, eroding sensitivities little by little until a person no longer recognizes how far he has drifted.

When the Second World War ended, many of the refugees of the Mir Yeshiva who had survived the war years in Shanghai emigrated to the United States. Among them was the great mashgiach, Rav Yechezkel Levenstein. Yet, he found himself unable to remain here for long.

He explained that when he first arrived in America, the sight of public chillul Shabbos horrified him. Seeing cars driving on Shabbos caused him deep pain. But as time passed, he noticed that he was becoming accustomed to it. The shock was fading. That realization frightened him so deeply that he left America and moved to Eretz Yisroel.

Today, many of us are fortunate to live in neighborhoods where Shabbos is publicly honored and cherished. The streets are quiet, the stores are closed, and the atmosphere itself reflects kedushas Shabbos. But no person should believe that he is beyond influence. Even if our streets are sheltered, our minds and hearts are constantly exposed to a world filled with temptations, distractions, and values profoundly at odds with Torah.

The lesson of the nozir is as relevant today as ever. We must think ahead. We must protect ourselves before the struggle begins. We must recognize which influences strengthen us and which slowly weaken us, even when the damage is not immediately visible.

After having just experienced the beautiful Yom Tov of Shavuos, we should carry this message with us. “Loma nismicha chag Shavuos l’parshas nozir.” At Har Sinai, on Shavuos, we were given a way of life through the Torah that teaches us to live thoughtfully, carefully, and deliberately. We need to ask ourselves where what we are doing will lead, what type of person it will make us, and whether it will bring us closer to Hashem or further away.

The world often glorifies spontaneity and living for the moment. Torah teaches responsibility, foresight, and self-awareness. It teaches us to see the mud before the wagon sinks into it. It teaches us to be a mamleches kohanim v’goy kadosh.

May we all merit living lives of Torah and mitzvos and merit the coming of Moshiach very soon.