The Flavor of Life

My grandchildren were by us for Shabbos, and they were chewing gum, as children are wont to do. As I watched them, I was thinking about something my rebbi, Rav Mendel Kaplan, would tell us. He would say, “Life is like chewing gum. Ah bissel tzuker un kei kei kei — It has a little sugar, but most of the time you are simply chewing.” His pithy comment is quite deep and has much meaning.

There is actually a lot packed into that little expression. Underneath the humor is a very profound observation about what life is all about.

Rav Mendel’s point, as I understand it, is that we tend to imagine that life is supposed to be a succession of sweet moments. We wait for the good news, the simcha, the accomplishment, the nachas, the vacation, the special Shabbos, the wedding, the birth, the siyum. Those are the moments when we taste the “sugar.” But they are not the bulk of life because, face it, most of life is the chewing.

And that doesn’t mean that most of life is bad. Chewing gum isn’t bitter or unpleasant. It’s simply...ordinary. You chew. You continue. You go through the day. You take care of what needs to be taken care of. You deal with the unexpected. You go to work, learn, daven, raise children, worry about things, solve problems, pay bills, make phone calls, wait for appointments, clean up messes, and do it all over again the next day.

There is a little sugar mixed in, and those moments are precious. But the sugar isn’t the entirety of the gum. The chewing is the experience of living.

And perhaps that is one of the great misunderstandings of life. We think that we will really begin living when everything falls into place. When the children grow up, when the parnossah is settled, when the health is perfect, when the problem is resolved, when the simcha arrives, then life will be good.

But Rav Mendel’s “ah bissel tzuker un kei kei kei” teaches something else: Don’t wait for the sugar to begin appreciating the chewing.

A person is not measured only by the dramatic moments of his life. Much of avodas Hashem takes place in the seemingly uneventful actions of ordinary days. The greatness is often not in the extraordinary moment, but in getting up every day and doing what needs to be done again and again.

The kei kei kei is almost the sound of life itself.

We chew, we chew, and we keep going.

And perhaps there is an even deeper message. When you chew gum, you don’t ask, “When is the next taste of sugar coming?” You know that the sweetness will eventually fade, but you continue chewing. Why? Because chewing itself has become part of the experience.

So, too, we have to learn to appreciate not only the moments when Hashem gives us an obvious taste of sweetness, but also the long stretches in between. The sweetness may be less apparent, but that doesn’t mean that those moments are empty. They, too, are part of the life Hashem has given us.

Sometimes, in fact, the chewing is where the sweetness is hidden.

A person looks back after many years and realizes that the days he thought were merely “ordinary” were actually his life. The rushed mornings, the chitchat with people in shul after davening, the walks home from shul, the Shabbos meals, the conversations with his children, the learning sessions, the small acts of kindness, the challenges he overcame, even the difficulties that forced him to grow — those weren’t interruptions to his life. They were his life.

Rav Kaplan managed to say all of this with a smile and a couple of words of Yiddish: Ah bissel tzuker un kei kei kei.

A little sugar.

And then you chew.

Rav Mendel was very smart. He was blessed with a life comprised of chochmas haTorah, and he sought ways to impart that chochmah to us, his young American talmidim. He was teaching us not to resent the chewing while waiting for the sugar, but rather to recognize that the sugar gives us moments of sweetness, while the chewing gives us the opportunity to live.

Life is not a bowl of cherries or a piece of candy that is sweet from beginning to end. It is chewing gum: Ah bissel tzuker un kei kei kei. There is a little sweetness, and then a great deal of chewing.

The sugar moments remind us why we are here.

We work hard at something and then are able to look back and see what we have accomplished, be it raising children and enjoying the milestones of their lives or struggling to work through a Tosafos and then experiencing the joy and sweetness of finally understanding it. Someone goes through a nisayon and later realizes that it made him stronger, deeper, and closer to Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

The chewing itself can eventually become sweet.

There is another important dimension. If we expect life to be sweet all the time, we would become disappointed very quickly. But if we understand that life is mostly chewing, with occasional bursts of sweetness, we develop a different relationship with life.

We stop asking, “Why isn’t life sweeter?” and begin asking, “Where is the sugar?”

And I think that is perhaps the most beautiful way to understand Rav Kaplan’s bissel tzuker.

The sugar is there. It may not be everywhere. It may not last forever. Sometimes we don’t even recognize it while we’re experiencing it. But it is there, and perhaps the real avodah is to learn to notice it.

Two people can live through the same day. Both have responsibilities, frustrations, bills, disappointments, and endless things to take care of. One comes home saying, “What a difficult day.” The other remembers one small moment — a child’s smile, a good sevara, a meaningful vort, a beautiful sunset, a kind word — and says, “Boruch Hashem, there was some sugar today.”

As I get older, I think more often about Rav Mendel and his teachings and the insights he gave us when we were young and growing up. And I think about different dimensions of what he meant. Maybe that is what he meant. While it is true that life is mostly about chewing, it is also true that Hakadosh Boruch Hu makes sure that there is a little sweetness. The wise person looks for those moments and learns to savor them.

Elul is one of those doses of sugar that Hashem puts into life.

Life is filled with routine. We wake up, go to work, learn, daven, raise children, and deal with responsibilities, disappointments, and challenges. Through the “chewing” of life, we are moving forward, sometimes without even noticing how quickly the days are passing.

And then comes Elul.

Suddenly, Hashem gives us a month that is different from all the others. It is as if He puts a little sweetness into the gum and says to us, “Stop for a moment. Think about where you are going. You still have time. You can fix things. You can come closer. Ani leDodi veDodi li.”

That itself is an extraordinary kindness.

The yemei hadin are approaching. A person might look at himself and think, “How can I repair everything I have done wrong?” And then Elul arrives and tells him: Come with me. You can do it.

After Tisha B’Av and the Nine Days ended, we felt as if the rest of the month of Av was one of sweetness. It represented the sugar of life we so desperately crave. It provided us with the opportunity to get off the Ferris wheel of chewing, of working, of doing the things we have to do in life. The second half of Av gave us a break, a time to go away, to travel, to unwind — a time of leisure, swimming pools, barbecues, and enjoyment.

The past three weeks represented the physical sweetness that Hashem gives life, and now we have entered the month of Elul, which presents us with some of the spiritual sweetness of life.

The sweetness of Elul is not the sweetness of comfort or pleasure. It is the sweetness of opportunity.

Elul signals that Rosh Hashanah is coming. We are being given the weeks preceding it to prepare. To think. To regret. To apologize. To improve. To strengthen a relationship. To become more careful with our words. To daven with more concentration. To learn better and more. To examine our lives and say, “I am going to fix what I did wrong over the past year.” To say, “Next year, I am going to do better.”

That is the spiritual tzuker of life.

Teshuvah is not merely a painful accounting of our failures. It is the realization that we are not trapped by what we said or did yesterday. We can change it. We can change ourselves. The person I was yesterday does not have to be the person I am tomorrow. I can be better.

Elul is not meant to frighten us. It is meant to awaken us, as the posuk says, “Uru yesheinim mishinaschem.” Awaken from your slumber, from your actions throughout the year. The door of teshuvah is open. The door to greatness is open. Step right in.

We can literally go back and erase yesterday. What happened, happened. The words were spoken, the opportunities were missed, the mistakes were made. Yet, Hakadosh Boruch Hu created a mechanism through which a person can take those very failures and transform their meaning. We can take those chato’im, those mistakes, and, through the gift of teshuvah, turn the failures into zechuyos, merits.

Someone who recognizes what he did wrong, sincerely regrets it, accepts upon himself not to repeat it, and changes his behavior, is no longer the same person who committed that act. His past is no longer part of his history, and it does not define his destiny.

That is an extraordinary kindness. That is the spiritual sweetness of teshuvah.

Failure can become the beginning of growth. A sin can become the source of humility. A painful experience can teach a person compassion. A relationship that was damaged can become the impetus to learn how to speak differently. A missed opportunity can awaken a person to recognize the next opportunity when it arrives.

Elul is the month when Hashem reaches out to us, when Heaven touches earth and the distance between us and our Creator becomes smaller. Hashem comes closer and offers us the precious gift of teshuvah, the opportunity to find our way back home.

We may have wandered. We may have taken wrong turns, missed exits, traveled down roads we never should have entered, and sometimes gotten so lost that we no longer know how to get back. But teshuvah is Heaven’s GPS. It helps us recalculate and points us home. It reminds us that no matter how far we have traveled, the road back is still open. We are never too far gone to return. And what could be sweeter than that?

Elul isn’t merely a countdown to Rosh Hashanah. It is Hashem giving us advance notice that the yemei hadin are coming and giving us the opportunity to prepare for them.

He is telling us, “Don’t wait until you stand before Me to wish you had become different. Change now.”

Before the King judges us, He comes closer to us and gives us a month to go looking for Him.

We have spent another year chewing. There were sweet moments, bitter moments, ordinary moments, and painful moments. There were things we did well and things we wish we could do over.

Elul provides us with the opportunity to examine the past year, fix what needs fixing, and set ourselves on a good path for the coming year. Elul enables us to build a better future.

There is a little sugar. Life is still mostly chewing. But when Elul arrives, Hashem puts a little extra sweetness into the gum. He gives us a month in which the ordinary person can become extraordinary by confronting his past, learning from it, and returning to the One who has been waiting for him all along.

We can look at it a little deeper.

The Vilna Gaon writes that when Hashem created the world, He combined the middos of din and rachamim. The world could not exist through din alone, because no human being could survive if we were judged solely according to what we deserved. However, a world governed exclusively by rachamim would lack the structure and accountability necessary for creation to fulfill its purpose. Hashem therefore conducts the world through a combination of din and rachamim.

But during Elul, Hashem relates to us strictly with the middah of rachamim. The King is coming, the yemei hadin are approaching, and yet, paradoxically, the days immediately preceding judgment are days of extraordinary mercy. Prior to standing in judgment before Him, Hashem comes toward us with rachamim and invites us to approach.

What an incredible gift that is. Imagine a person who is about to stand trial. His actions are going to be examined, and he will have to answer for the choices he has made. And then, before the trial begins, the judge goes out to meet him and says to him, “Come. Let us fix this before we start hearing the case.”

That is Elul. It is a month of Divine mercy, of Divine sweetness.

Elul reminds us that our mistakes do not have to be the end of the story. Hashem gives us the extraordinary ability of teshuvah. He doesn’t wait for us to come crawling back after judgment has already been rendered. He comes closer. He makes the first move. He opens the door and beckons us inside.

And suddenly, Rav Mendel Kaplan’s words take on an even deeper meaning.

Life can indeed be a lot of chewing. We struggle, we stumble, we make mistakes, and we can wonder how we will find our way back. How will we get tzuker back into our lives? But then comes Elul and Hashem gives us a month of rachamim, a month when the distance between Heaven and earth is diminished, a month when the King is in the field and the road home is easier to find.

That is the sweetness of Elul. It is the sweetness of rachamim. It is the sweetness of knowing that the door is open. The sweetness of knowing that Hashem will help us get on the right path before He judges us.

May we all be zoche to come home and have a sweet year of goodness and kindness. A kesivah vachasimah tovah to all.

Living in Their Dream

I’m back on an El Al plane, heading for Eretz Yisroel, expecting to spend a couple of weeks in Yerushalayim.

Making the trip was not an easy decision. The specter of another war with Iran was hanging in the air. President Trump had been bombing Iran for fourteen straight nights and had repeatedly threatened to go all out against them. Had that happened, Israel would most likely have been drawn into the conflict, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there for that.

Our flight was scheduled for Monday morning, and I decided that if Shabbos passed without incident, we would go.

When Shabbos was over, I turned on my phone and saw that not only had the president not ramped up his attacks on the evil regime in Iran, but he had announced that, inexplicably, he was putting everything on hold.

As I waited to see how things would develop, I was reading seforim describing the aliyah of the talmidei HaGra and the talmidim of the Baal Shem Tov. I read about what motivated these great people to leave behind their homes in Eastern Europe, the lives they were accustomed to, and whatever comforts they had, and to undertake the treacherous journey to Eretz Yisroel, where they knew they would face a life of deprivation and hardship.

Reading about why they went, and what they went through to get there, became a source of encouragement for me.

War or not, I would go.

I hadn’t made any particular plans for what I would do while I was there, but would simply follow the path of the multitudes of Yidden who, throughout the generations, yearned to be in Eretz Yisroel and took advantage of every opportunity to spend time in Hashem’s land.

And if there would be a war, I decided, I would make the best of it. I would not spend my time there angling for a way to get back “home.” I wasn’t looking forward to sitting in a bomb shelter, but if that was how Hashem had planned my vacation, I would accept it.

Every day, we put our lives in the hands of Hakadosh Boruch Hu and trust that He will care for us. In Eretz Yisroel, however, we feel it more.

The Torah (Devorim 11:12) tells us that Eretz Yisroel is different from every other land: “Eretz asher Hashem Elokecha doreish osah tomid einei Hashem Elokecha bah mereishis hashonah ve’ad acharis Shonah.”

It is a land upon which Hashem’s eyes are constantly focused, “from the beginning of the year until the end of the year.”

Perhaps that is part of what makes being there so different. We are always dependent on Hashem wherever we live, but in Eretz Yisroel, that dependence is palpable. You feel it.

As it turned out, there was no immediate need to worry. Despite President Trump’s bluster and threats, there was no war. Iran continues in its evil ways, and the world watches.

But perhaps the real question is not why I was willing to go to Eretz Yisroel with the possibility of war hanging over the country. The real question is why, throughout our history, Jews have been willing to do far more.

They left behind homes, families, livelihoods, and familiar surroundings. They traveled for months under conditions that are difficult for us to imagine. Some endured hunger and disease. Others arrived in a land where they had no means of supporting themselves and little of the physical comfort they had known in Europe.

And they did it willingly.

What were they looking for?

The answer is not simply that they wanted to live in a holy place. They were seeking something that cannot be measured in comfort, convenience, or even safety.

They wanted to be in the place where a Yid feels closest to the Ribono Shel Olam. They wanted to be in Hashem’s Chosen Land.

The stories of the talmidei HaGra and the talmidim of the Baal Shem Tov are especially moving because these were not people who had nothing to lose. They had homes. They had communities. They had positions of honor and lives that were familiar to them. Yet, the pull of Eretz Yisroel was stronger. The desire to live lives of kedusha in artzeinu hakedosha and help usher in the era of Moshiach pulled them out of their homes and away from their extended families to begin new lives in Eretz Yisroel. In the years since, many have followed their example, and as time passed, the challenges of settling there eased.

Those people understood something that we sometimes lose sight of.

For thousands of years, Yidden have davened, pleaded, sung, and begged to return to Yerushalayim, to Eretz Yisroel.

Every day, Jews around the world turn toward Yerushalayim. Three times a day, we ask to be returned to our land. At the end of the Seder, we proclaim, “Leshanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim.” At its height, as Yom Kippur concludes, we cry out the same words.

And here I was, sitting on an airplane, heading to Yerushalayim, with the privilege of spending two weeks in Eretz Yisroel.

How blessed is our generation.

If only we would appreciate our blessings.

There is another thought that occurred to me as I sat on the plane.

We have become accustomed to something that is anything but ordinary.

We can wake up in New York, Los Angeles, London, or Paris, and by the next morning be in Yerushalayim.

We take it for granted.

We complain about the flight. We complain about the airport. We complain about the food. We complain about the traffic when we land.

And then we get into a car and drive through Yerushalayim.

Stop for a moment and think about that. For centuries, a Yid could spend his entire life dreaming about that moment. Our grandparents and great-grandparents longed to see Yerushalayim. They yearned to be able to walk through the streets of the Holy City.

For many of them, the dream remained a dream.

For others, the dream was so powerful that they abandoned everything they knew and undertook journeys that we would consider unimaginable.

And we?

We can book a ticket on our phone. A few clicks, a few hours in the air, and we are there. Perhaps because it is so easy, we don’t appreciate what we have.

There is a danger in miracles becoming routine.

When something extraordinary happens once, we are overwhelmed by it. When it happens every day, we begin to regard it as normal.

That may be one of the great challenges of our generation.

We were born into a world in which Jews can live in Eretz Yisroel as Jews. We can walk freely through Yerushalayim. We can learn Torah there, daven there, raise children there, and build communities there.

We can visit the Kosel whenever we want.

We can travel throughout the land that our ancestors could only dream of seeing.

And somehow, it has become ordinary.

Perhaps the seforim I was reading before the trip were reminding me not to let that happen.

They were reminding me that Eretz Yisroel is a gift.

A gift purchased with the yearning, sacrifice, and mesirus nefesh of generations.

A gift that carries responsibility, and a gift that should never be taken for granted.

Yet, Eretz Yisroel is going through a very difficult period.

Bnei Torah have been dealing with a campaign against them that would have been difficult to imagine not that long ago. Cynical propagandists have unleashed a vicious political war against the Torah community, turning the issue of military service into a weapon with which to attack an entire way of life.

The result, coming in the midst of an actual war against Israel’s mortal enemies, has been nothing short of a typhoon.

Instead of the Jewish people standing together against those who seek to destroy us, an increasingly bitter internal struggle has developed. The political and social divisions have become so deep that the country sometimes seems to be fighting a civil war while simultaneously fighting an external war.

And with elections approaching, the battle is only becoming more intense.

There is something particularly painful about this, because Eretz Yisroel is not merely a country. It is the home of the Jewish people.

For generations, the secularization of Israeli society was not merely tolerated. It was deliberately cultivated. Torah study and religious observance were pushed to the margins as the founders of the state sought to create a new Israeli Jew—more secular, more nationalistic, and less connected to the Jewish religious tradition.

The tragedy is that many of the early leaders had grown up differently.

They may not have been observant themselves, but they came from homes and communities where Torah, mitzvos, and Jewish tradition were familiar. They had parents and grandparents who were religious. They had relatives who were frum. They knew what Shabbos was. They knew what a bais medrash was. They knew that the Jewish people have a Torah.

And even when they fought against religious influence, many understood that the Torah community is an authentic and indispensable component of the Jewish people.

That understanding led to what became known as the religious status quo.

Israel’s first prime minister, David Ben-Gurion, despite being a secular socialist, reached an accommodation with the religious parties that included the famous arrangement granting exemptions from military service to yeshiva students.

The arrangement was far from perfect, and the Torah community certainly did not view the secular leadership as its natural ally. But there was an understanding that there was room in the Jewish state for Jews who lived according to the Torah.

There were other surprising connections as well.

Shimon Peres, who became one of Israel’s most prominent secular leaders, grew up with a Jewish religious background and had studied Torah with his grandfather. He also met the Chofetz Chaim as a youngster. Later, he played a role in preventing the draft of religious girls, for which the Torah community was eternally grateful.

Menachem Begin came from Brisk and, despite becoming a secular political leader, understood the world of Torah and the place of religious Jews within the Jewish people in a way that is difficult to find among today’s political class. He was familiar enough with Yiddishkeit that when he was hiding from the British, he hid in plain sight by living as a religious Jew in Yerushalayim.

When Begin came to power, it represented a historic change in the relationship between the government and the Torah parties.

There was still disagreement. There was still tension. There were still battles.

But there was a basic recognition that we, too, were entitled to support and rights.

That has changed.

Today, many of the politicians leading the campaign against the Torah community have little meaningful connection to Torah, halacha, or the culture and traditions of Jewish religious life.

And that lack of familiarity matters.

It is difficult to understand someone whose world you have never entered.

If you don’t understand why a person can spend his life learning Torah, you will see a yeshiva student as someone avoiding responsibility.

If you don’t understand what Torah means to a Yid, you will see Torah learning as merely another career choice.

If you don’t understand that the Jewish people survived exile because we remained connected toTorah, you will have difficulty understanding why the Torah community regards the preservation of Torah learning as an existential matter.

And if your ideal is to become “k’chol ha’amim”—like all the nations—then Torah will inevitably come to be viewed as an obstacle to that goal rather than the foundation of Jewish existence.

They don’t understand us at all.

This is not simply a political disagreement.

It is a disagreement over what a Jewish state is supposed to be.

Is Israel merely a country inhabited by people who happen to be Jewish, or is it the Jewish state whose identity is rooted in the history, heritage, and Torah of the Jewish people?

Those are two very different visions.

During my trip, I met Moshe Gafni, Knesset leader of Degel HaTorah. He asked me a question that has stayed with me: “Do people in America realize how bad the situation of the Torah community is in Israel?”

People in positions of leadership within the Torah community are deeply concerned about what the next elections will bring and what kind of government will emerge afterward. They understand that the coming political battles are not merely about personalities or parties. The decisions made now may determine the relationship between the State of Israel and the Torah community for years to come.

Every election is important. But some elections are pivotal.

President Ronald Reagan famously warned that freedom is never more than a generation away from extinction. The same principle can apply to institutions and traditions. What one generation takes for granted, the next generation may no longer understand, and the generation after that may actively oppose.

The coming elections may therefore represent a turning point in Israel’s relationship with its Torah community.

And there is another development that should trouble every Jew.

As the State of Israel has become increasingly estranged from Torah, and as the Torah community has increasingly been portrayed as the problem rather than as an essential part of the Jewish people, something else has been happening in the world.

Hatred of Jews has been rising.

Antisemitism has become more brazen, more mainstream, and more politically acceptable.

On American college campuses, in European cities, and increasingly within the Democrat Party, which once considered itself a friend of the Jewish people and which many Jews supported and still support, anti-Israel rhetoric has often crossed the line into something much darker.

It is a troubling irony. We spent two thousand years praying to return to Eretz Yisroel. We finally returned. A Jewish state was established. Cities, yeshivos, hospitals, and universities were built. Jews poured in from across the globe.

And yet, at the very moment when we have more Jewish power than we have had in two thousand years, there are those working to separate the Jewish state from the very thing that made us a nation in the first place: Torah.

That should frighten us, not because frum Jews need special privileges, but because a Jewish state without a Jewish soul is ultimately a contradiction.

Eretz Yisroel was not promised to us merely so that we could become another nation, with theaters, universities, and a government. It was given to us so that we could become the nation Hashem chose us to be.

But despite all of this, Eretz Yisroel remains Eretz Yisroel.

It is the land Hashem promised to our forefathers. It is the direction toward which we turn three times a day when we daven. Its air is holy. Its soil is holy. And many of the people who live there are visibly holy.

On this visit, I discovered a new gem.

A friend suggested that I daven on Shabbos morning at the Kerem Avrohom shul. It is literally a stone’s throw from the new developments on the Schneller property in Geulah, where I was staying.

The contrast could hardly be greater.

Jerusalem Estates is a modern high-rise development, with contemporary architecture and beautifully appointed apartments equipped with all the latest amenities.

And in its very shadow stands this little shul, a throwback to another Yerushalayim.

The shul is small and has only a few regular mispallelim. To reach it, you climb an outdoor flight of steps to the second floor. There is nothing grand about it. No marble lobby. No impressive entrance. No architectural statement.

Just a little shul.

But what a shul!

As soon as I heard how close it was, I was eager to daven there. I remembered having been there as a bochur, when I was learning in Brisk. Rav Dovid Soloveitchik’s yeshiva had learned one of the sedorim there, and I had gone there several times and regularly passed it.

Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach had lived in Yerushalayim when he first came to Eretz Yisroel and he had learned in this very shul.

Now I had the opportunity to return.

The people were warm and welcoming. After davening, several of the mispallelim came over to greet me, asking my name and where I am from.

One of the men who approached me was an older Yid who was the baal korei.

I complimented him on his laining and asked him his name.

“Yadler,” he told me.

I asked if he was related to the famed Yerushalayim maggid, Rav Bentzion Yadler.

He looked at me and told me that he was his father’s father.

I took another look at him.

I studied his face and features, trying to discern in him the remnants of the Yerushalayim of old, the world of the legendary maggid whose name is woven into the story of Yerushalayim.

Apparently, he noticed me looking at him.

He looked me straight in the eye and said very seriously: “Ihr hut ah zechus vos ihr hut gedavent du! You have a zechus that you davened here!”

Indeed, I did.

I looked around the shul and noticed a plaque thanking the Jews of Vilna who had contributed toward the construction of the building.

Then I saw the date, 5654. I made a quick calculation and realized that it was the year 1894.

I stood there for a moment, contemplating those numbers.

1894.

What did the world look like then?

What did Yerushalayim look like?

What did life look like for the Yidden who built this little shul?

The world has changed almost beyond recognition since then. Empires have risen and disappeared. Nations have been created and destroyed. Technology has transformed every aspect of human life. Yerushalayim has expanded far beyond what it was back then and become a major city.

Yet, this little shul is still there.

Torah is still being learned there.

Tefillos are still being recited there.

Yidden are still walking up those same steps to stand before Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

The rov of the shul is the fourth member of his family to occupy the position, going back to the famed brothers, Rav Yonah and Rav Eliyohu Rom.

I went over to him and said shalom aleichem. He asked my name and whether I was related to Rav Yisroel Lipschutz, the author of the Tiferes Yisroel on Mishnayos. I told him that I wasn’t, and that my family came from Kovno. He smiled and told me that I had come to the right place and should feel at home.

He then told me something else.

The famed gaon, Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin, who lived in the Old City of Yerushalayim, would venture beyond the walls during the summer and daven in this very shul.

Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin had previously served as the rov of Kovno.

Suddenly, my own connection to the place felt a little more personal.

I had been doubly blessed.

I had the zechus to be in Yerushalayim, and I had the zechus to daven in a small, unassuming shul where great gedolim had stood before me—where Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin had davened, where Rav Shach had learned, and where the yeshiva headed by the son of the Brisker Rov, populated by talmidim who would go on to become Klal Yisroel’s roshei yeshiva, rabbeim, and rabbonim, had once learned.

This is Eretz Yisroel.

For all its problems, for all its struggles, for all the political turmoil and uncertainty, there is no place like it.

Every step taken there is a mitzvah.

Every corner has a story.

Every stone seems to hold a secret.

The land preserves and transmits a heritage that stretches back thousands of years, and everywhere you turn, you encounter the people who lived there, dreamed there, struggled there, davened there, and refused to give up on it.

Perhaps that is why, especially now, we need to concentrate on the good.

It is Elul.

The month when we prepare ourselves for the Yom Hadin has arrived.

And the Torah gives us a remarkable formula for approaching that judgment.

The Kedushas Levi, in this week’s parsha, Parshas Shoftim, explains the pesukim of “Shoftim veshotrim titein lecha bechol she’arecha.”

We are commanded to establish judges and officers. But there is another message hidden within these words.

If we learn to judge others properly, with fairness, compassion, and kindness, then “veshoftu es ha’am mishpat tzedek”—we can bring about a more merciful judgment upon Klal Yisroel.

The way we judge others influences the way we ourselves are judged.

That is a powerful thought with which to enter Elul.

We are all preparing for the Yom Hadin. We are examining ourselves, thinking about where we can improve, where we have fallen short, and what we can do differently in the coming year.

And we all have much to daven for.

Klal Yisroel is in a serious situation.

Our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisroel are living with danger from without and painful divisions within. The Torah community is facing challenges that could have consequences for generations. Antisemitism is rising around the world. The Jewish people need rachamim.

An important thing we can all do now is to help arouse the middah of chesed.

Judge others favorably.

Speak more kindly.

Assume the best.

Look for the good.

Give people the benefit of the doubt.

And perhaps, in that zechus, we will merit that Hakadosh Boruch Hu will look upon us with that same middah.

The summer is coming to an early end this year, and the heady days of Elul have arrived.

We spent the summer trying to maximize the days of bein hazemanim. Now we have entered a different season, one in which we have to maximize something far more precious: the days of Elul.

We were given a gift in Eretz Yisroel.

We were given the gift of a generation that can travel to Yerushalayim with a boarding pass.

We were given the gift of Torah, of tefillah, of Jewish life, and of the ability to walk in the footsteps of generations who dreamed of being where we are.

Let us not take any of it for granted. Let us appreciate the blessings we have each day in our lives.

Let us see the good. Let us judge one another favorably.

And let us use these precious days of Elul to arouse the middas hachesed, so that we and all of Klal Yisroel may be judged favorably and merit a kesivah vachasimah tovah, a year of good health, yeshuah, hatzlocha, brocha, and, if he has not come before the new year begins, bias Moshiach Tzidkeinu.

Looking Back to Go Forward

There is a growing unease over the direction of the Republican Party when President Trump leaves the political stage. For decades, support for Israel was one of the few issues that transcended partisan politics. While that bipartisan consensus has steadily eroded, particularly as anti-Israel sentiment has become increasingly mainstream on the left, Republicans have largely remained steadfast allies of Israel. President Donald Trump, more than perhaps any American president before him, has demonstrated an unwavering commitment to Israel’s security and legitimacy.

But many are beginning to ask what comes next.

Vice President JD Vance’s recent remarks have unsettled many in the Jewish community. In discussing his efforts to negotiate with Iran, Vance suggested that unnamed figures within the Israeli government were engaged in a secret, well-funded campaign to manipulate American policy. His comments echoed one of history’s oldest antisemitic accusations, namely that Jews secretly wield hidden influence over governments and push nations into wars for their own benefit. Such conspiracy theories have fueled hatred and persecution for centuries.

Antisemitism rarely begins with open expressions of hatred or explicit calls for violence. More often, it starts with insinuations about secret power, hidden agendas, and divided loyalties. That is why many Jews found the vice president’s comments so disturbing. It is not simply what he said, but what such rhetoric legitimizes when it comes from one of the most powerful elected officials in the world.

Last week, a majority of Democratic members of Congress voted to cut off aid to Israel. Candidates who traffic in anti-Israel rhetoric are moving ever closer to seats in Congress and the Senate. In New York City, the nation’s largest Jewish population is governed by a mayor who routinely vilifies Israel and has renewed his public threat to arrest Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu should he attend the United Nations General Assembly in September. Whether such a threat could ever be carried out is almost beside the point. The fact that it can be uttered, debated, and amplified in the mainstream without widespread outrage reflects how dramatically the public conversation has shifted and how much traction these views are gaining.

The same trend is evident overseas. Britain’s new government has signaled a far more confrontational approach toward Israel. Belgium has joined a growing list of European countries implementing punitive economic measures against Jewish communities in Yehudah, Shomron, and the Golan. Across Europe, support for Israel is becoming increasingly conditional, while hostility toward Israel is becoming increasingly respectable, and attacks on Jews and Jewish targets are becoming increasingly commonplace.

We have sadly grown accustomed to reports of Jews being assaulted in New York, Toronto, London, Paris, and other major cities. This week came word of Jews being attacked in Mongolia, a country with almost no Jewish population. It was a chilling reminder that antisemitism has never depended on familiarity with Jews. It thrives on myths, conspiracy theories, and propaganda, requiring little contact with its targets. The hatred has become global.

Viewed individually, each of these developments might be dismissed as an isolated incident. Taken together, they paint a sobering picture. The atmosphere has changed. Ideas that once lived on the political fringes are entering the mainstream. Hostility toward Israel is no longer confined to radical activists. Suspicion of Jews and Israel is increasingly expressed openly, confidently, and without apology.

Throughout our long history, the Jewish people have learned that political fortunes rise and fall. Friends become enemies. Governments change. Alliances shift. We appreciate and pray for leaders who stand with us and defend truth and justice. But our ultimate security has never rested in Washington, London, Brussels, or any other capital.

As the world around us grows increasingly uncertain, the lesson of these days becomes ever more relevant. Our task is not to panic, but to strengthen our emunah, deepen our commitment to Torah and mitzvos, and remember the promise that has sustained us through every exile. Nations may change, public opinion may shift, and yesterday’s allies may become tomorrow’s enemies, but the Ribbono Shel Olam remains the Shomer Yisroel, and that never changes.

How quickly things change. Last week it was Shabbos Chazon, the saddest Shabbos of the year, surrounded by mourning and the signs of aveilus. On Tisha B’Av, we sit on the floor as we read Eicha, recite Kinnos, mourn the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh, and reflect upon the suffering our people have endured throughout the various goluyos. We wonder when the sadness will end.

And then Tisha B’Av concludes. The mourning ends. And Shabbos Nachamu arrives. The atmosphere changes. The sadness gives way to hope. We play music again and wear clean clothes. There is a palpable feeling of relief.

But why? Has anything really changed? The Bais Hamikdosh has not been rebuilt. The Har Habayis remains off limits. The shu’olim - foxes - still roam where the Shechinah once rested, and the world has become no friendlier toward us. Why, then, are we suddenly comforted? What comfort do we have?

The answer lies in understanding the meaning of the word nechomah.

On Shabbos Nachamu, we begin reciting a series of seven haftaros from Yeshayahu, the novi of consolation, that accompany us from Tisha B’Av until Rosh Hashanah. This Shabbos derives its name from its haftarah, which opens with the famous words, “Nachamu, nachamu ami  -  Be comforted, be comforted, My people.”

The novi offers us double comfort, and we wonder about the repetition.

Following the sin of Adam Harishon, the posuk states, “Vayinochem Hashem” (Bereishis 6:6). Rashi explains that the word nechomah means more than consolation. It also means reconsidering, stepping back, and looking at a situation from a different perspective. Following what Adam had done, Hashem was reconsidering the creation of man.

But the word nechomah also means comfort. We can explain that these two definitions really go together because comfort comes in two stages. First there is consolation, the soothing reassurance that the pain will not last forever. Then comes the second, deeper form of nechomah, when the mourner steps back from the immediate darkness surrounding him and begins to see the larger picture. In truth, nothing has changed, but the person receives comfort because everything begins to look different as his perspective changes.

We can now understand why the novi says to us, “Nachamu, nachamu.” Hashem is offering us both forms of consolation, both definitions of nechomah.

We find this dual message of nechomah at the end of Maseches Makkos. Chazal recount that Rabbon Gamliel, Rabi Elazar ben Azaryah, Rabi Yehoshua, and Rabi Akiva were once standing overlooking the Har Habayis when they saw a fox emerging from the site of the Kodesh Hakodoshim. The others cried. Rabi Akiva smiled.

When Rabi Akiva explained that the fulfillment of the prophecy of destruction guaranteed the fulfillment of the prophecy of redemption, they said to him, “Akiva, nichamtonu. Akiva, nichamtonu.”

Just as Yeshayahu Hanovi did, they repeated the words. Rabi Akiva had not changed reality. He changed the way they perceived it. That is the essence of nechomah.

Unfortunately, we arrive at Shabbos Nachamu carrying burdens that feel painfully familiar.

The nations of the world continue to align themselves against us. As Israel fights enemies sworn to its destruction, much of the civilized world condemns the victim while excusing the aggressor. Jews everywhere are targeted and vilified.

The slogans change. The hatred never does.

Today’s antisemitism disguises itself as anti-Zionism or humanitarian concern. Yesterday it accused Jews of poisoning wells, spreading plagues, and consuming gentile blood. Today it speaks the language of international law, human rights, and political campaigns.

The vocabulary has evolved, not the hatred. It is still the same.

It is the ancient animosity of Yishmoel toward Yitzchok, of Eisov toward Yaakov, clothed in the fashionable language of each generation.

Europe, whose soil is saturated with Jewish blood, once again tolerates public displays of antisemitism that many believed had disappeared forever. Jews wonder if they have a future there. University campuses in America have become increasingly hostile to openly Jewish students. Public figures who once concealed their prejudice now express it proudly and are praised for it. Democrats who support Israel put their careers in jeopardy, and the vice president regularly insults Israel and speaks against it. When people gather to discuss current events, they wonder how much longer American Jews will continue to enjoy the freedom with which we have been blessed.

History rarely repeats itself in precisely the same form. It simply finds new disguises.

For us, however, none of this is surprising. Chazal taught us long ago, “Sinah yordah la’olam,” hatred descended to the world when Klal Yisroel stood at Har Sinai and accepted the Torah. Our enemies may invent new explanations for their hostility, but the source remains unchanged. We are hated because we carry Hashem’s Torah and bear His Name.

That realization does not lessen the pain, but it changes the perspective, and that is the beginning of nechomah.

As we conclude the mourning of the Three Weeks and Nine Days, we wonder how much longer the golus will continue and when it will finally end. America is battling Iran, and we fear the war will expand to Eretz Yisroel. We wonder what we can do to bring peace.

When history seems to repeat itself generation after generation, we do not find the answers to our questions in newspaper headlines, political analysis, or in the shallow conversations that often substitute for serious thought.

A young man once boarded a bus to Bayit Vegan and noticed Rav Moshe Shapiro sitting quietly nearby. Gathering his courage, he approached him and asked, “How are we supposed to understand what happened during the Holocaust?”

Rav Moshe looked at him warmly.

“Shalom,” he replied.

He did not say anything else. He did not address the question or even acknowledge it.

A talmid witnessed the interaction, and when Rav Moshe got off the bus, he followed him and asked why the well-known rosh yeshiva and baal machshovah had ignored such an important question. Rav Moshe explained, “The young man knows where I live. He knows how long this bus ride is. If he thinks that the answer to that question can be given in the few minutes before I reach my stop, then he isn’t really looking for an answer. He’s just looking to make conversation. I don’t have time for pointless conversations.”

Some questions are simply too profound to be answered with slogans. Life demands depth and understanding. To understand Jewish history requires Torah. It requires us to look beyond the surface and recognize the Hand guiding events that often appear random.

That is what Parshas Va’eschanon teaches us.

Just as the novi gives us nechomah, Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us how to attain it.

Moshe Rabbeinu takes Klal Yisroel by the hand and shows us what Rabi Akiva would understand centuries later.

The answer to Jewish history is found in the Torah.

Parshas Va’eschanon is much more than a review of events that took place long ago. It is a blueprint for every generation that would one day struggle to understand exile, persecution, and redemption.

Moshe begins with his own heartfelt tefillah. “Hashem Elokim, Atah hachilosah...” He recounts how he pleaded with Hashem to allow him to enter Eretz Yisroel and then accepted Hashem’s decree barring him from the Holy Land with complete faith.

Before teaching Klal Yisroel how to live, Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us how to trust. He reminds us that no matter how much remains hidden from our understanding, there is One Who sees the entire picture.

Rashi explains Moshe’s declaration, “Asher mi Keil bashomayim u’va’aretz asher yaaseh k’maasecha u’gevorosecha…,” by contrasting Hashem with earthly rulers. A king of flesh and blood may wish to show compassion, but he is constrained by ministers, advisors, and political realities. Hashem answers to no one. His mercy is absolute, unrestricted, and perfect.

Through those words and that idea, we begin to find nechomah as we recognize that our lives are not governed by chance or by the whims of world leaders, but rest securely in the Hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Moshe then reminds us where life is found. He says, “V’atem hadeveikim baHashem Elokeichem chaim kulchem hayom.” Those who remain attached and devoted to Hashem are truly alive.

Life is not merely breathing, eating, sleeping, or playing ball. Life is attachment to Hashem. Life is found in a heartfelt Shemoneh Esrei, another posuk, another blatt Gemara, another act of chesed, another mitzvah performed with sincerity.

The world defines life by comfort, wealth, and security. The Torah defines life by clinging to Hashem.

Moshe continues: “Mi goy gadol asher lo Elokim kerovim eilov...”

What other nation possesses such a gift? What other people can call out to the Creator of the universe and know that He hears every sincere cry? And what other nation has experienced what ours has?

Who else was taken from the midst of another people through miracles, signs, wonders, and open displays of Divine providence?

Who else has survived exile after exile, persecution after persecution, only to emerge again and again proclaiming the same eternal truths?

History has no parallel. Neither does Klal Yisroel.

Moshe then brings us to the foundation upon which everything else rests: the Aseres Hadibros, the charter of the Jewish people that defines who we are, how we live, and why we endure.

Immediately afterward, we proclaim the words that have accompanied us through every generation: “Shema Yisroel Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.”

Those words put us to bed each night and accompany us every morning.

They have echoed from the stirring cries of Yom Kippur to the whispered bedtime Krias Shema, and to the final declarations of martyrs ascending al kiddush Hashem.

Empires have risen and fallen. Kings have disappeared. Cultures and civilizations have vanished. But those words have never ceased to be spoken.

That, too, is nechomah.

Moshe’s message reaches its practical conclusion a few pesukim later.

“V’osisa hayoshor vehatov.”

If we seek Hashem’s protection, we must strive to become the people He asks us to be.

Not merely believers, not merely observers, but honest, compassionate, and upright Jews. When we are a nation faithful in both belief and conduct, we can ask Hashem to fight our battles.

When we fight our yeitzer hora, He fights our enemies. When we build homes of integrity, businesses of honesty, communities of kindness, and lives that reflect His Torah, the bris remains intact, along with Hashem’s promises.

Moshe assures us that Hashem will bring His people into the land promised to the avos, filling their homes with brachos and goodness.

Those promises were never abandoned. They were only delayed until we prove worthy of receiving them.

Perhaps that is the deepest meaning of Shabbos Nachamu.

Nothing changed this week. The stones of the Kosel still stand as lonely testaments to what once was and what we have lost. The Har Habayis still waits for us to return. Our enemies have not disappeared. The world’s attitudes have not improved.

So what is the nechomah?

The nechomah is that everything has changed because we have changed. Our outlook has changed.

The tears of Tisha B’Av were never meant to leave us in despair. They were meant to restore our vision. The mourning stripped away our illusions and reminded us who we are. When we perceive the churban and the losses, when we see the foxes strutting about, confident and content, that is when we know that resurrection is coming. When we see dusk, we know that there will be dawn. When the sun goes down, we know it will also rise.

Shabbos Chazon marks where we were. Shabbos Nachamu points to where we are going.

The Bluzhever Rebbe experienced unimaginable tragedy during the Holocaust and then came as a refugee to America, where he witnessed and helped lead the rebirth of Yiddishkeit. He understood this better than most.

A young bochur once stood in line after lighting Chanukah licht to receive the rebbe’s brocha. Hoping to preserve the moment, he quietly asked a friend to photograph him standing beside the rebbe.

The rebbe noticed the boy handing his friend the camera to capture the moment.

When the young man approached for a brocha, the rebbe warmly took his hand and smiled.

“Bochur’l,” he said, “you probably want a picture because I represent a world that has disappeared.”

The boy nodded shyly.

“But never forget,” the rebbe said as he held the young man’s hand, “that the future of that world that is no more is standing inside of you.”

The man who had survived destruction and came to embody the generation and world that had been lost was telling a young member of the next generation that the past itself guaranteed the future - a future of Torah, a future of Yiddishkeit, a future of Yidden.

That is why we remember. That is why we spent three weeks remembering and mourning. Not because we live in the past, and not because we are held hostage by the past, but because we believe in tomorrow, because we want to build a better tomorrow.

We rejoice on Shabbos Nachamu not because the golus has ended, but because we know that it will.

Over the past nine days and three weeks, we returned to our origins. We remembered our losses. We confronted our failures. We mourned the Bais Hamikdosh, the harugei Beitar, Rabi Akiva and the other Tannaim, the victims of Tach V’Tat, of York, England, of the Crusades, and of the Holocaust.

Now we can lift our eyes. Now we hear the words of the novi once again as he calls out to us through the ages and proclaims, “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

Be comforted. Step back. See beyond the ruins. Look beyond the darkness. Recognize that the same Hashem Who accompanied us through every golus walks beside us today.

Our path to geulah begins long before Moshiach arrives. It begins the moment a Jew learns to see history through the eyes of Torah.

That is the gift of nechomah.

That is the message of Shabbos Nachamu.

And that is why, even before the Bais Hamikdosh is rebuilt, we are able to proclaim again and again: “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

We know it is on the way. It is almost here.

May we merit the day when those words are no longer a promise of consolation, but the joyous proclamation of redemption itself, bemeheirah beyomeinu. Amein.

Churban and Geulah

There are many sad sounds we hear during the Nine Days, from the mournful melody of Eicha to the scraping of a chair being turned over on Tisha B’Av. There is also the sound of silence we encounter when music would otherwise be playing, when we would have been attending a simcha or gathering at a barbecue or another happy occasion that is put on hold until the Nine Days have ended.

The saddest sound, however, is one we have almost stopped hearing altogether. It is the sound of another Jew slipping away.

Every year, as Tisha B’Av approaches, we mourn the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh. We remember the flames that consumed Yerushalayim, the blood that flowed through its streets, and the millions of Jews who were killed, exiled, enslaved, and scattered.

We cry over a churban that occurred nearly two thousand years ago, and Chazal taught us that it has never really ended. Every generation in which the Bais Hamikdosh is not rebuilt is considered as if it was destroyed.

The churban is not only past history. It is also present tense.

Today, Jews once again live under physical threat. Our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisroel endure terrorism, rockets, and war. Around the world, antisemitism has emerged from the shadows with a brazenness few imagined possible just a few years ago. Jewish schools require guards. Shuls require security. Jews are attacked in the streets of Europe and America simply because they are Jews. Politicians openly mock and criticize us.

Physical danger has returned.

But there is another tragedy unfolding, quieter than war and less visible than terrorism, yet in many ways no less devastating. It is the disappearance of Jews.

Last week, much attention was given to a poll that purported to show that New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani enjoys greater approval among American Jews than Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu. The numbers themselves are startling. Even more startling were the accompanying findings, which showed that substantial numbers of American Jews believe that the United States is too supportive of Israel, and many describe Israel’s actions in Gaza in the harshest possible terms.

The poll indicated that the antisemitic Mamdani has a 44% approval rating among U.S. Jews, while only 32% approve of Netanyahu. The Associated Press survey also found that 38% of Jews say the United States is being too supportive of Israel, and 30% say that Israel’s actions in Gaza are genocide.

People argue over what the poll means politically.

Perhaps we should ask what it means spiritually.

My late uncle, Rav Berel Wein, had a way of reducing complicated sociological questions to a simple truth. He would often remark that it should not surprise anyone that Jews who eat from McDonald’s eventually lose their Jewish feeling.

It is not really about hamburgers. It is about assimilation.

When Jewish life becomes little more than an ethnic memory, when Torah is replaced by culture and mitzvos by nostalgia, Jewish identity eventually becomes so diluted that it loses its very foundation.

This did not happen overnight.

For decades, millions of American Jews convinced themselves that identity could survive without Torah. They thought that Chanukah candles, a Pesach Seder, a bar mitzvah, a few Yiddish expressions, bagels, lox, brisket, and nostalgic memories would somehow be enough. They are not.

Children were taught to be good people, but not necessarily good Jews.

They learned every fashionable ideology of the day but little about Avrohom Avinu, Har Sinai, the churban, or the return to Eretz Yisroel. They could speak fluently about oppression and colonialism, but had never studied why the Jewish people have davened toward Yerushalayim for over three thousand years.

When October 7 arrived, it did not create this crisis. It exposed it.

Many young Jews had never been given the tools to understand why Israel exists, why Jews have returned to their ancient homeland, or why Jewish survival has always depended upon remaining faithful to who we are.

A vacuum never remains empty.

If parents, schools, and communities do not fill Jewish hearts with Torah, emunah, history, and pride, someone else will fill them with other ideas.

And they have.

This, too, is churban.

So, on Tisha B’Av, as we mourn the millions who died al kiddush Hashem throughout the generations, we also weep for the millions who have been lost to intermarriage, assimilation, and indifference - Jews whose names remain Jewish, while their children and grandchildren may never know what it means to say Shema Yisroel.

Their loss is not marked by a yahrtzeit.

No Kaddish is recited. No shivah is observed.

Yet, Klal Yisroel is diminished all the same.

In Eretz Yisroel today, we are witnessing firsthand how devastating the loss of Yiddishkeit can be for the Jewish people. What we see taking place is not merely a political disagreement or a debate over public policy. It is a kulturkampf, a struggle over the soul and character of the Jewish state, the likes of which many of us have never experienced.

Jews whose grandparents lived lives of Torah and mitzvos are at the forefront of efforts to reshape the spiritual identity of the country. The painful irony is impossible to ignore. Descendants of those who once davened in shtieblach, learned in yeshivos and botei medrash, and sacrificed everything for Yiddishkeit are now leading campaigns against many of the very institutions that ensured the survival of Torah after the Holocaust and remain at the heart of what being a Jew is all about.

Make no mistake about it: What is going on now is far more than a dispute over the military draft of yeshiva bochurim.

That issue is merely the symbol of a much broader struggle.

Rabbi Wein, whose final book, A Life of Learning, was recently published ahead of his upcoming first yahrtzeit, recounts there the first time he encountered the Ponovezher Rov.

It was 1947. Rabbi Wein was not yet bar mitzvah. The Ponovezher Rov had already become a legendary figure, and when he arrived in Chicago, the city’s rabbonim, roshei yeshiva, and approximately 250 yeshiva talmidim gathered to hear him.

“We all sensed his aristocratic bearing,” Rabbi Wein writes. “The Torah shone from him.”

The bais medrash was overflowing. The Ponovezher Rov first delivered a brilliant shiur and then turned to the future of Eretz Yisroel.

Rabbi Wein recalls his astonishing prediction: “He predicted that a Jewish state would be established, but that it could very well be that the Jewish government would put a person in jail just for being a shomer Shabbos.... That was my first exposure to the Ponovezher Rov. I had never heard words like that before.... I went home with my father.... When we came home, my mother asked, ‘So what did he say?’ and my father told her [about his prediction].”

Those words must have sounded almost unimaginable to the audience in Chicago at the time. Yet, history unfolded much as the Ponovezher Rov foresaw. The State of Israel was established, and while Jews are, boruch Hashem, not imprisoned simply for being shomrei Shabbos, we are witnessing something that would have been equally difficult to imagine: Thousands of bnei Torah, whose lives are devoted to limud haTorah, are being treated as enemies of the state, facing arrests, threats, and relentless efforts to dismantle the Torah world. Alongside this has emerged a painful and dangerous rift among Jews, one that many believe is unlike anything experienced since the founding of the state.

The Ponovezher Rov foresaw the great challenge that the Jewish people would face from Jews who no longer understood what Torah is, what a ben Torah represents, and why the Torah itself is the heartbeat of Klal Yisroel.

And now, seventy-eight years later, just a couple of weeks ago, senior Israeli roshei yeshiva traveled to Chicago, among other places, to present their case and raise desperately needed funds to sustain the Israeli yeshivos and yungeleit, who are being squeezed financially by anti-Torah state forces engaged in this battle.

The battle extends far beyond yeshivos and yungeleit. It also encompasses Chinuch Atzmai, the independent Torah school system founded with extraordinary mesirus nefesh by Rav Aharon Kotler, the Chazon Ish, Rav Zalman Sorotzkin, and the gedolei hador, who understood that without authentic Torah education, there would be no future for Klal Yisroel. It includes repeated efforts to weaken the autonomy of Torah institutions, reduce funding for yeshivos, alter the religious character of the public sphere, challenge the sanctity of Shabbos, and erode the kedusha of the Kosel, Eretz Yisroel, and Am Yisroel.

Each controversy may appear to stand on its own, but all are expressions of the same underlying conflict: What should a Jewish state look like? Should it be guided by the eternal values of Torah or should it resemble every other modern Western democracy, with Judaism relegated to little more than a cultural artifact?

This is the tragedy of spiritual distance. When Torah is no longer the lens through which a Jew sees the world, even the institutions that preserved the Jewish people for thousands of years can come to be viewed as obstacles rather than treasures. The yeshiva, once the pride of the Jewish people, becomes a target of resentment. The Kosel, once the symbol of every Jewish heart’s longing, becomes just another public site to be redefined. Shabbos, the gift that has sustained us, becomes an inconvenience to be accommodated rather than a covenant to be cherished. The holy city of Yerushalayim becomes a battleground over whether stores should remain closed on Shabbos.

The greatest sadness is that so many of those fighting these battles are our own brothers and sisters.

Had they been raised to appreciate the beauty of Torah, the sacrifice of previous generations, and the miracle of the Torah world rebuilt after the churban of Europe, they might see these institutions not as relics of the past, but as the very heartbeat of the Jewish future.

That, too, is part of the churban we mourn during these days.

Not only the stones that were burned, but the hearts that have grown distant.

During these Nine Days, we refrain from music and limit our joy because our nation’s heart remains broken.

Perhaps we should also allow ourselves to mourn the brothers and sisters who are still alive but are disappearing from our people.

The Gemara teaches that the second Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because of sinas chinom. It will be rebuilt through ahavas Yisroel. Love means more than merely embracing another Yid. It means seeking to bring him home.

The answer to assimilation is not better politics. It is not better messaging. It is not cute slogans or social media campaigns.

It is Torah.

It is parents who teach their children that being Jewish is not simply an ancestry, but a destiny.

It is schools that fill young hearts with pride in Hashem, His Torah, and His people.

It is communities that understand that every Jewish child who grows up loving Torah is another stone laid in the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh.

The enemies of the Jewish people seek to destroy our bodies. Assimilation destroys our souls. During these Nine Days, we mourn both.

And perhaps, if our mourning is sincere enough - for the Jews we have lost, for those we are still losing, and for those who can yet be found - it will help bring the day when mourning itself will disappear and the words of the novi Zechariah (8:19) will finally be fulfilled: “The fast of the fourth (17^th of Tammuz), the fast of the fifth (Tisha B’Av) ... shall become days of joy and gladness.”

Chazal tell us that Moshiach was born on Tisha B’Av. The Nine Days are not only about mourning. They are also about rebuilding. Every Jewish child who learns the Alef-Bais, every Jew who puts on tefillin, every family that begins keeping Shabbos, every baal teshuvah, and every person who begins learning Torah is another brick in the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh.

Perhaps this is the cry of the Nine Days for our generation. We mourn a Bais Hamikdosh that was destroyed because Jews became distant from one another and from our Father in Heaven. We must mourn every Jewish soul that has drifted away and believe that every soul can return. The same Jewish spark that burned in Avrohom Avinu, in the kedoshim of Europe, and in the builders of Torah in Eretz Yisroel after the churban still burns somewhere within every Jew. Sometimes it is very deep, very hidden, and very small, but it is there. Our task is not only to mourn what was lost. It is also to dedicate ourselves to bringing home what was lost.

My dear friend, Rav Eliezer Sorotzkin, who for many years led Lev L’Achim and today heads Chinuch Atzmai, was in the United States last week and shared with me a remarkable story that offers a perspective we would do well to remember.

Eighty years ago, the parent committee of the Shearis Yisroel cheder discovered that the father of two boys attending the school traveled to the beach on Shabbos, Rachmana litzlan. The committee members were aghast. They concluded that the boys could no longer remain in the cheder.

The renowned chareidi writer Rav Moshe Schonfeld was involved with the school and suggested that before taking any action, they should discuss the matter with the Chazon Ish.

The situation was presented to the Chazon Ish, and he listened carefully as the parents spoke. Then, instead of responding immediately, as was his usual practice, he sat in silence.

Five long minutes of deep concentration passed.

Finally, he lifted his eyes and quietly said, “I searched through the entire Torah. I carefully examined all the punishments prescribed for a mechallel Shabbos, and I did not find anywhere that it is forbidden to teach Torah to his sons.”

This is not to say that we should begin admitting the children of mechallelei Shabbos into our schools. Rather, the lesson is that perhaps we should look at those Jewish children in the United States and Eretz Yisroel who have wandered so far from the path of their ancestors with sadness and compassion, and ask whether there is some way we can reach them, inspire them, help bring them home, and support worthy organizations such as Lev L’Achim, Shuvu, and Oorah, which engage in this holy work.

The Kuzari, (5:27), the Maharal in Netzach Yisroel (Perek 23) and many other seforim teach us that appreciating the loss of the Bais Hamikdosh and mourning the churban bring us closer to its rebuilding. Grieving over what we have lost arouses Heavenly mercy and hastens the geulah.

May we merit to see the fulfillment of “Kol hamisabel al Yerushalayim zoche vero’eh b’simchasa,” that all those who mourn Yerushalayim will merit to witness her consolation bekarov.

During these Nine Days of mourning, let us daven that we merit to see the day when the Bais Hamikdosh will be rebuilt, when every neshomah that has become distant returns, and when we will merit the ultimate geulah, speedily in our days.

The Next Stop

There are moments when life feels settled, when the world seems to be moving along familiar tracks and even its difficulties feel manageable because they fit into patterns we recognize. And then there are moments when that sense of order begins to loosen, when events seem to arrive faster than they can be processed, and the future feels less predictable than what came before it.

For the Jewish people, that feeling is not new.

It is the story of our history.

As we proceed through the Three Weeks, reflecting on the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh and the long journey of golus that followed, we learn Parshiyos Mattos-Masei, which, at first glance, appears to be little more than a detailed record of travel stations in the wilderness. The Torah lists, one after another, the places where Klal Yisroel encamped during their forty-year journey from Mitzrayim toward Eretz Yisroel, seemingly offering a geographical itinerary that records where the nation stopped along the way.

Sifrei Kabbolah and drush explain that the forty-two encampments listed in the parsha correspond to the Sheim Mem-Bais, the Divine Name of forty-two letters, indicating that each stop was part of a deeply structured spiritual process, carefully guided and precisely arranged by Hakadosh Boruch Hu to prepare the Jewish people for their ultimate entry into Eretz Yisroel.

What appears to be a travel log is, in truth, a map of destiny. This explains the teaching of Chazal (Brachos 8b) that we are obligated to read and study the parsha each week shnayim mikra v’echod targum. Chazal add that this obligation extends to “afilu Ataros v’Divon,” the names of the places where the Jews camped in the midbar. Though the names of these places have no apparent significance and no targum, we are nevertheless obligated to recite them, because every stop and every name carries profound meaning.

Our ancestors were not wandering aimlessly in the desert for forty years. They were engaging in a Divinely orchestrated sequence of stages through which Klal Yisroel had to pass in order to become the nation capable of entering the Land promised to Avrohom Avinu. Some of those stages were elevated and uplifting, while others were marked by complaint, failure, or punishment. Yet, all of them together formed the continuous process of national formation.

One of the most profound messages of this week’s parshiyos is that life is not defined by isolated moments, but by movement through stages, each of which contributes - even when not immediately understood - to the unfolding of a larger story that becomes visible only when viewed in its entirety.

A person often imagines his life as a series of disconnected events - some meaningful and some confusing, some successful and others disappointing - as though each stands alone without necessarily being part of a unified structure. The Torah, however, teaches otherwise. Every stage is part of a journey, every experience is part of a direction, and every passage through life is part of an overarching design that is guided by the Ribbono Shel Olam with purpose and intention.

We are not static beings. We are travelers, and travelers, by definition, are always in motion, even when that motion is not immediately visible.

This is why Chazal emphasize that adam l’umal yulad, man was created for work, for effort, for striving, for movement toward something beyond his present state. The goal is not to stagnate, not to become too comfortable in one place for too long, but rather to pursue continual growth, continual refinement, and continual advancement through the various stages of life.

There are times when progress is visible and satisfying, and there are moments when it feels as though nothing is moving at all. There are times when a person feels elevated and inspired, and times when he feels weighed down by uncertainty or failure. Parshas Masei reminds us that the journey does not cease during those moments, even if it is no longer perceptible in the same way, because we are always in transit. Always moving.

This idea takes on deeper meaning when we consider one of the most frequently misunderstood descriptions of Klal Yisroel in the Torah: the phrase am k’shei oref, a stiff-necked people, used by Hakadosh Boruch Hu after the chet ha’Eigel. At first glance, it appears to be a rebuke, a criticism of stubbornness that led the nation to sin. Yet, Moshe Rabbeinu, in his plea for forgiveness, transforms this description into a defense, arguing that the same trait that can lead to rebellion can also be the source of extraordinary resilience and unwavering loyalty when directed toward the service of Hashem.

What appears to be a negative - obstinacy - becomes, in the context of Jewish survival, an essential strength.

It is this stubborn continuity that has carried Klal Yisroel through every stage of golus. History is filled with civilizations that rose and fell, empires that dominated the world only to vanish, and cultures that once seemed unshakable but ultimately disappeared into obscurity. Yet, Klal Yisroel, despite having been exiled repeatedly, persecuted relentlessly, and dispersed across continents, has continued forward without interruption.

The Romans thought that they had ended Jewish history with the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh.

The Crusaders thought that they had broken the spirit of Klal Yisroel.

The Cossacks thought that they had extinguished Jewish life in Eastern Europe.

The Nazis declared with chilling confidence that they were implementing the “Final Solution.”

Each generation of our enemies believed that it had brought about the end of our story, and each time, boruch Hashem, they were mistaken.

What they perceived as endings were really transitions. They were simply another station in a journey that continued regardless of how final things appeared at the time.

This becomes particularly evident when we study the accounts of the Holocaust through the lens of those who lived through it with a world of emunah. While secular historians often emphasize helplessness and victimhood, the testimonies of frum survivors reveal something far more complex and far more profound. They describe Jews who clung to mitzvos under the most impossible circumstances, who risked their lives for tefillin, and who never gave up their emunah and bitachon, even under the most trying conditions.

They were not passive. They were defiant in their faith.

And when the war ended, their response was not to remain defined by destruction, but to begin again. Survivors rebuilt families, reestablished yeshivos, revived communities, and laid the foundations for the Torah world that exists today. They did so not because they had recovered from trauma in any conventional sense, but because they understood that Klal Yisroel does not remain in any one place indefinitely.

We move forward.

This pattern can be traced throughout Jewish history.

Take Telz, for example. To describe Telz merely as a town is to miss its significance. It was one of the great centers of Torah in Lithuania, home to a yeshiva that shaped generations of Torah leadership. Sunday was the 20^th of Tammuz. On that date, in 5701 (1941), the Jews of Telz were murdered in the Rainiai Forest, and it appeared, at that moment, that an entire world of Torah had been extinguished.

The Nazis were driven not only to destroy lives, but to eradicate an entire spiritual civilization.

But they did not understand the nature of Klal Yisroel. Telz was not extinguished. It was relocated.

Its Torah was carried forward and rebuilt in new places by its leaders, who understood that destruction is never the final word.

Today, the sound of Torah in Yeshivas Telz is loud and strong. On Sunday, Selichos were recited and special shiurim were delivered l’illui nishmos the kedoshei Telz. Their memory lives on. Their sanctified lives are not forgotten.

Similarly, on Tisha B’Av, we mourn the loss of the residents of the ancient city of Beitar. The Rambam describes a city filled with tens of thousands of Jews, led by Bar Kochva, who was believed to be the potential Moshiach, a moment in history when Klal Yisroel stood at the threshold of geulah. And yet, that moment collapsed into catastrophe.

As the Rambam (Hilchos Taanis 5) writes: “A great city by the name of Beitar was captured. Inside it were many tens of thousands of Jewish people. They had a great king whom all of Yisroel and the rabbis believed was the king Moshiach. He fell into the hands of the gentiles and they were all killed. It was a great tragedy, as great as the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh.”

Rav Moshe Shapiro explains that the depth of Tisha B’Av lies not only in what was lost, but in what could have been - in the recognition that Klal Yisroel has stood at the edge of redemption more than once, only to find that the moment slipped away.

And that realization becomes part of the mourning, for we mourn not only the destruction, but also the missed opportunities.

And so, the question naturally arises: How many times in history have we been closer than we realized? How many moments could have unfolded differently? And how often do we fail to recognize the significance of the place we are currently in while we are still standing within it?

These days, we are experiencing many moments that feel historically charged. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the pace of change, to gasp in awe as we perceive Hashem arranging the world for the period of the ultimate geulah.

The Satmar Rebbe would say that after the devastation of the Holocaust, Klal Yisroel stood at the precipice of the geulah. Hashem granted us a glimpse of what redemption would look like - a partial restoration of Jewish life in Eretz Yisroel that was not yet complete, not yet governed by Torah, and not yet accompanied by the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. It was, in that sense, a station along the way, but not the destination itself.

The Bais Hamikdosh was not returned. Halacha did not rule. It was merely a taste of what was to come.

However, the rebbe would say that because the Jewish people were satisfied with that small taste, Hashem determined that we were not yet deserving of the redemption, and therefore we were left with only a semblance of what could be.

And once again, we were left with yet another stop along the road, another station on the way to geulah.

And that is where we still are today. Moving. Waiting. Building. Continuing along the journey with clarity and faith.

This is the message of Ataros v’Divon, the reason we study every one of the stops in the midbar on the way to Eretz Yisroel. That is the message of Parshas Masei. Until the geulah, no place is the final stop. It is merely a station, and we are not meant to mistake the station for the destination.

We are not meant to settle where we are. We are meant to move. To climb. To grow. To improve. Not to become stationary, apathetic, or content.

People can cycle for miles on a stationary bike, sweating, raising their heart rate, feeling the strain in their legs as though they are accomplishing something significant, and yet they remain in exactly the same place where they began. There is motion, there is effort, there is even exhaustion, but there is no forward movement.

It is possible for a person to be very busy, very active, even very tired from all he is doing, and still remain essentially unchanged. He may feel that he is progressing because he is exerting effort, but if all that effort doesn’t translate into forward movement, then he is still standing in the same place where he started.

This is one of the subtle dangers of spiritual life as well. A person can become accustomed to his routines, his habits, and the way he goes about life, and, without realizing it, begin to mistake activity for advancement. If he becomes too comfortable with where he is, then his entire life can resemble a stationary bike: a great deal of motion without actually going anywhere.

The Torah carefully records each masa, each journey, each departure, and each arrival, emphasizing that the defining feature of those forty years was movement. Not permanence. Not settling. Not remaining in one place for too long, but constant transition from one stage to the next, in a precisely structured process of growth under the direct guidance of Hakadosh Boruch Hu, moving forward until Klal Yisroel reached Eretz Yisroel.

That is the fundamental difference between a journey and a routine.

A routine repeats itself. A journey goes somewhere.

And that is why the Torah does not refer to them merely as encampments, but as masa’os - journeys, departures, movement.

The Torah is telling us that life must always be measured not only by intensity, but by direction. Are we moving forward or are we circling in the same place? A person is not meant to define success by being busy or engaged, but by moving toward a higher destination. It is what yeshivos refer to as shteiging. We must always strive to shteig - not just to learn, not just to go through the motions, but to become better and to grow.

When a person understands that every stage of life is meant to move him forward, then even effort, struggle, and challenge become part of a forward-moving journey rather than an illusion of progress.

Even when we slow down in the summer and take a break for bein hazmanim, we don’t stop. We don’t lose sight of our goals and don’t take a vacation from Torah.

The parshiyos of Mattos-Masei teach us that we are not meant to become spiritually stationary, even if we are spiritually active. We are meant to be in motion, progressing from one masa to the next, never confusing where we are with where we are meant to go.

Because the difference between pedaling and a journey, between merely learning and shteiging, is not how much energy is expended, but whether you are actually going somewhere.

Klal Yisroel, from the midbar until today, has never been a people standing still. We have always been a people moving forward toward the fulfillment of the Divine promise that one day all of these journeys will be seen not as wandering, but as a single path leading home.

May we merit coming home with the geulah sheleimah bekarov.