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.

It’s Time to Come Home

This week, we enter the Three Weeks, a period unlike any other on the Jewish calendar, a time of mourning for events that took place centuries ago. It is a time to remember what we have endured as a people, to miss what we no longer have, and to recognize that the absence we have grown accustomed to was never meant to be normal.

The Bais Hamikdosh was the place where Heaven and earth met. It was where the Shechinah rested openly among Klal Yisroel, where every korban expressed our yearning to draw closer to Hashem. The Bais Hamikdosh was where tefillos ascended with a clarity we can scarcely imagine. It was the beating heart of the Jewish people, the place from which holiness radiated to the entire world.

Its destruction marked the beginning of a long exile in which Hashem’s presence became hidden and our nation was scattered across the globe. We have built communities, yeshivos, and homes of Torah that are sources of great pride. Yet, every simcha remains incomplete, every home bears a zeicher l’churban, and the center of Jewish life remains in ruins.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of golus is not merely that we have lived so long without the Bais Hamikdosh, but that we have become accustomed to living without it. We have learned how to navigate golus. We have learned how to flourish in foreign lands. We have become comfortable in a world that our ancestors never mistook for home.

The Three Weeks insist on awakening us from that complacency. They remind us that no matter how secure we feel, no matter how prosperous our communities become, no matter how much Torah is learned and how many beautiful shuls are built, something essential is still missing. We are a people waiting to come home.

Lately, we have received several reminders of this reality. We became comfortable in our golus in Western Europe, in the United States, and, dare we say, even in Eretz Yisroel. Each of these places has recently reminded us of the true nature of golus, leaving us shaken and concerned.

There was a time, not very long ago, when support for Israel was one of the few issues that united Democrats and Republicans. From President Harry Truman’s recognition of the Jewish state in 1948 through decades of bipartisan congressional support, standing with Israel was viewed as both a moral obligation and an American strategic interest. Republicans and Democrats disagreed on taxes, spending, foreign policy, and countless domestic issues, but support for Israel remained a bipartisan constant.

For decades, New York stood at the center of that consensus. It was home to some of America’s strongest pro-Israel Democrats. Men such as Senators Daniel Patrick Moynihan and Jacob Javits defended Israel unapologetically on the world stage. The city’s large Jewish population helped create a political culture in which support for Israel was considered both morally right and politically prudent.

Those days are changing. Last week’s Democratic primary elections in New York may ultimately be remembered as a turning point. A slate of socialist candidates defeated established Democrats while campaigning on democratic socialism, class warfare, and promises of dramatically expanding government.

More importantly, woven through nearly every successful campaign was a common thread of hostility toward Israel.

These candidates were not merely critical of Israel. They attacked their opponents for supporting Israel. Progressives have created a political environment in which, to survive Democratic primaries, candidates increasingly feel compelled to distance themselves from support for Israel.

That is an extraordinary political reversal.

Ultra-liberal Congressman Dan Goldman was condemned for being too close to Israel and for his relationship with AIPAC. His victorious challenger, Brad Lander, repeatedly attacked those ties, making opposition to AIPAC a defining issue of his campaign.

Lander accused Israel of committing genocide in Gaza, pledged to oppose American arms sales to Israel, and declared after his victory that he intends to become “one of the Jewish members of Congress most willing to stand up for Palestinian human rights,” while insisting that American taxpayers should no longer finance “Netanyahu’s wars.”

Elsewhere, Darializa Avila Chevalier defeated veteran Congressman Adriano Espaillat after campaigning on ending military aid to Israel. Her political résumé includes organizing Columbia University’s pro-Palestinian encampments and participating in anti-Israel activism dating back to her years as part of Students for Justice in Palestine.

Her victory celebration was punctuated by chants of “Free Palestine” as she proudly repeated her promise to block military assistance to Israel.

These were not isolated races.

They were victories by candidates backed and promoted by New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani, whose political rise has become emblematic of a movement that increasingly views opposition to Israel not as a liability but as a badge of ideological purity.

Only a few years ago, rhetoric of the type these people employ would have ended a mainstream political career. Today, it helps build one.

But something deeper is taking place.

When these people talk about Israel, they do not merely mean Israel. They mean us. They mean the Jews - the rich Jews, the greedy Jews, the Jews who throughout history have been made the scapegoats for society’s ills. Yet, they cloak their antisemitism in language that denies the Jewish people’s right, after centuries of persecution, exile, expulsions, pogroms, and the Holocaust, to live safely in their ancestral homeland.

We do not need to agree with every decision of the Israeli government - and we don’t - to recognize that relentlessly portraying the world’s only Jewish state as uniquely evil both feeds, and is fed by, antisemitism.

The line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism becomes increasingly blurred when Jewish students are harassed, Jewish businesses are targeted, and elected officials are ostracized simply because they support Israel’s existence.

Moreover, politicians, as well as podcasters and media talking heads, have discovered that attacking Israel energizes activists, excites donors, dominates headlines, and increasingly wins elections in urban districts.

As hostility toward Israel becomes a reliable path to clicks, ratings, and higher office, more politicians and media figures will adopt similar rhetoric. It is noteworthy that virtually none of the Democratic Party’s leaders or elected officials has condemned the statements and beliefs of these progressive candidates. You can count on the fingers of one hand those who have declared that such individuals do not belong in the Democratic Party, in Congress, in the Senate, or in any position of public responsibility.

As America celebrates its 250^th anniversary as the bastion of liberty, this trend should concern not only Jews, but all freedom-loving people, both in the United States and around the world.

History has repeatedly shown that societies that normalize hostility toward Jews rarely stop there. Antisemitism has often served as an early warning sign of broader civic and moral decline.

The issue facing America is larger than foreign policy.

It is whether we remain capable of distinguishing between a democratic ally defending itself against terrorists and organizations that openly celebrate the murder of civilians.

It is whether ideological purity will replace moral clarity.

These elections, together with the recent primaries that have produced similar candidates in Maine, Michigan, New Jersey, and elsewhere around the country, should serve as a warning.

Ideas once confined to the political fringe have steadily entered the mainstream.

Language once universally condemned is now increasingly accepted and applauded.

Hostility toward Israel is no longer merely tolerated in parts of American politics. It is rewarded.

Chazal tell us, “Halacha hee b’yodua she’Eisov sonei l’Yaakov.” Throughout history, that hatred has worn many disguises. Sometimes it came draped in the robes of religion. Sometimes it marched beneath the banners of nationalism. Today, it often presents itself clothed in the language of human rights, anti-colonialism, and social justice.

The vocabulary changes. The animosity remains the same.

History teaches another lesson. Every empire, every ideology, and every movement that sought to marginalize or erase the Jewish people eventually passed into history.

Klal Yisroel endured.

We do not place our trust in political parties or election returns. We appreciate our friends, recognize dangers when they arise, and speak honestly about the challenges confronting our community. But ultimately, our confidence rests where it always has - in the Ribbono Shel Olam, Who has sustained His people through every generation.

During this period of the Three Weeks, we think of the churban of the Botei Mikdosh and of the many Jewish communities that existed for centuries, only to vanish almost overnight.

If you travel today to Vilna, you will find weathered gravestones whose inscriptions are slowly disappearing beneath layers of moss. You will see a vast, historic cemetery with a sports complex at its center, and you will read about plans to further develop the resting place of thousands of our ancestors. It is not enough that they did their best to destroy Jewish lives, torturing and tormenting them beyond imagination. They now feel compelled to disturb them even in death, denying them the most basic human dignity of resting in peace.

And in Vilna, and all across Europe, on streets where every Friday afternoon women once hurried home carrying fish, where fathers returned from the market and children ran to greet them, today there is only silence. Where there were once shtieblach, shuls, and botei medrash pulsating with life, filled with the sounds of Torah and tefillah that sustained the world, today there is emptiness and desolation, as many locals have done their best to ensure that those places are - and remain - Judenrein.

The Nazis, their collaborators, and all those who sought to erase Jewish existence succeeded in destroying bodies and buildings. They succeeded in emptying streets and silencing communities. But they did not succeed in silencing the Torah.

Auschwitz, Birkenau, and the forests of Ponary and Kelm, as well as Bialystok and Babi Yar, where the voices of Jews were cut short, still stand as haunting reminders of that destruction. But in cities and towns throughout the world, those voices are once again heard, loudly, proudly, and unmistakably.

Today, young people sit in botei medrash, struggling over the very same difficult line of Gemara that a child in Tashkent, Brody, or Warsaw struggled with a hundred years ago. Mothers light Shabbos candles, covering their eyes and swaying with emotion as they recite the same tefillah their grandmothers whispered in small wooden homes across Eastern Europe. Jews everywhere are opening seforim and continuing conversations that tyrants tried to bring to an end.

There is a profound thought from Chazal (Taanis 5b) that offers a powerful response to the tragedies of our history: “Rabi Yitzchok said in the name of Rabi Yochonon, Yaakov Avinu lo meis - Yaakov Avinu did not die.” The Gemara explains that just as Yaakov’s children are alive, he, too, is alive. The continuity of his descendants, their loyalty to Yiddishkeit, and their commitment to Torah and mitzvos are themselves a form of eternity.

Nowhere is that more evident than when we reflect on the Jewish communities of the Diaspora that have been lost since the churban.

Think of the men who sat in little shtieblach in Kishinev and Galicia, worrying whether their grandsons would know a Tosafos. Think of the mothers in Germany, Spain, and Portugal who recited Tehillim, praying that their children remain faithful Jews. Think of the millions of simple Yidden who owned little, endured much, and measured success not by wealth or honor, but by whether their children would continue the chain that stretched back to Har Sinai.

Their worlds were consumed by fire. Their homes were burned. Their botei medrash were emptied. Entire towns, cities, and even countries were emptied of Jews. And yet the chain was never broken.

The bochur wrestling with a difficult Rambam. The father walking to shul on a Shabbos morning with his little son. The family gathered around the table singing zemiros. The child in cheder reciting, “Torah tzivah lanu Moshe morasha kehillas Yaakov.” These are not merely echoes of the past. They are the answer to those who believed they could erase us.

Our president is fighting with his opponents over the construction of a giant arch at Arlington National Cemetery. Civilizations build their monuments out of stone and marble. Ours are built of children, Torah, and memory.

The great cities of Europe once contained magnificent shuls whose walls seemed to touch the heavens. Many are now museums, ruins, or empty shells.

The enormous botei medrash in Lakewood, the crowded shtieblach in Boro Park, and the yeshivos in Eretz Yisroel, filled with thousands of people learning Torah, are our memorials to the generations that came before us.

The signs of the churban are everywhere. You can walk through Yerushalayim and still see walls scorched by the Romans as they destroyed the Bais Hamikdosh. You can see the massive stones they hurled from the walls surrounding the Bais Hamikdosh. You can walk along the very paths trod by millions of olei regel. And, of course, you can daven at the only remnant we have of the Bais Hamikdosh, the Kosel, from which the Shechinah has never departed. It still stands, beckoning us to come home, to return to what we once were and what we can once again become.

We have lost so much. We are a wandering people, and now we enter three weeks of mourning, three weeks of aveilus, to reflect upon what we have lost and what we continue to lack.

The headlines change. Political parties rise and fall. Empires come and go, just as they always have. But the Jewish story has never truly been about them. It has always been about a people carrying the memory of their true home, refusing to mistake golus for geulah.

As the Three Weeks begin once again, we remember what was destroyed and what still must be rebuilt. We remember that we are a people waiting to come home, and that we can never be comfortable until we do.

I remember as a young child, we would be playing outside by a neighbor and my mother would call for us and say, “It’s time to come home. It’s time to have supper and do homework.”

The Three Weeks is like that call, reminding us that we have work to do and we have to come home.

Every day, we await the arrival of Moshiach. Every day, we daven for him and hope that this will be our final day in golus. May these be the last Three Weeks we observe in mourning, and may we soon merit to witness the fulfillment of the tefillah we recite three times each day: “Vesechezenah eineinu beshuvcha l’Tzion berachamim.”
Amein.

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.