The Carrot, the Fish and Moshiach

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The achdus created multiple rebbes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tasting History

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sword is suspended - and we discuss the wallpaper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Past, Present & Future

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you look down.

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

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

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

It is something you touch.

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

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

Where will it all lead? How will it end?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beauty of Shabbos

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the gift of menucha?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbos transformed him. He was a new person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Smack, the Darkness, and the Light

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

We learn in this week’s parsha about the makkah of choshech, a darkness so thick that it paralyzed an entire civilization. Mitzrayim was plunged into a suffocating blackness that immobilized its people, leaving them unable to move, see, or function. Yet, amid that oppressive gloom, the Jewish people walked with light wherever they went. Two worlds existed side by side: one blinded and frozen, the other illuminated and alive; one enveloped by darkness and one enjoying bright light.

Chazal teach that only one-fifth of the Jewish people merited leaving Mitzrayim. The rest, tragically, did not survive. They lacked the inner strength of faith, the resolve to cling to Hashem and to the mesorah handed down through the generations. They perished quietly, concealed by the darkness itself, their loss unnoticed by a world that could no longer see.

The Rishonim and Acharonim regularly remind us that Jewish history does not merely repeat itself. It reveals itself. Maaseh avos siman labonim. What happened to our forefathers is a map for their children. The descent into, and emergence from, Mitzrayim foreshadows our own journey toward redemption. The Jewish people, scattered across continents and cultures, will face confusion, hardship, and suffering until the destined moment arrives.

We live today in ikvesa deMeshicha, the final footsteps before Moshiach. And just as the road out of Mitzrayim passed through choshech, so too our era is cloaked in darkness. It presses in from all sides, blurring truth, distorting values, and numbing sensitivity.

Those who cleave to Torah and mitzvos possess light, as the posuk states, “Ki ner mitzvah v’Torah ohr.” Torah illuminates when the world grows dim. It provides clarity, direction, and stability when everything feels uncertain. Those who abandon it, especially under pressure, often find themselves without anchors, sinking into moral confusion, greed, anxiety, and despair.

We confront a relentlessly shifting society, one eroded by fading morals and relentless temptation. New challenges arise daily. To merit Moshiach, we must work to preserve what makes us who we are. We must remember why we were created and what our mission is. Every decision we make requires us to consider whether this action brings the geulah closer or pushes it further away. If it adds light to the world, it deserves pursuit. If it deepens the darkness, it must be resisted.

The rise of tumah blinds many to what should be self-evident. The challenges and tests are severe. Emunah and bitachon are stretched. Tzaros multiply. The righteous suffer, the vulnerable falter, and Jews everywhere look ahead with apprehension.

We can only imagine the anguish during the darkest days of avdus in Mitzrayim, as multitudes of Yaakov Avinu’s descendants lost hope. Mitzrayim’s decadent culture beckoned them.

Then choshech descended, not as a sudden blow, but as a creeping presence, quiet and consuming. It did not announce itself with thunder or terror. It slipped in gently, disguising itself as progress, sophistication, and freedom. Those caught within it believed that they were moving forward, stepping into light, even as their vision dimmed and their footing faltered. The darkness was not merely the absence of light. It was a distortion of reality itself.

For those who mistook illusion for enlightenment, the darkness felt reassuring at first. Then the choshech thickened. It immobilized. It silenced. It erased. Those who had loosened their grip on emunah found that there was nothing left to hold them upright when the world went dark. Their disappearance was almost imperceptible, concealed beneath the shroud of night. No cries echoed. No monuments were raised. They simply slipped away, casualties not of persecution, but of confusion.

This was the strongest aspect of the makkah. The darkness did not destroy indiscriminately. It revealed who possessed inner light and who had extinguished it. The geulah was clearly unfolding just as Hakadosh Boruch Hu told them it would, but not everyone could see it, and not everyone could endure its demands. The promise of freedom passed over those who had freed themselves from the truth.

This is the enduring danger: What looks like light may, in truth, be darkness.

That danger did not end in Mitzrayim. It follows us into our daily lives — quieter now, more polished, more seductive. Choshech rarely announces itself as evil. It arrives cloaked in confidence, wrapped in slogans of self-expression, progress, and enlightenment. It promises ease, validation, and belonging. And like the darkness of Mitzrayim, it dulls our vision just enough that we stop noticing what we are losing.

In our world, false light abounds. Ideas that erode morality are marketed as compassion. Self-indulgence is rebranded as authenticity. The abandonment of limits is celebrated as freedom. Values once considered corrosive are elevated as virtues. While it all shines brightly, beneath the surface lies decay.

The test now is not whether we can recognize obvious evil, but whether we can distinguish truth from its clever imitations. Not everything that feels good is good. Not everything that is popular is right. Not everything that glows leads forward. Choshech today is the confusion that convinces a person to trade depth for comfort, meaning for acceptance, and eternity for immediacy.

Pursuing truth demands courage, because truth often resists convenience. When the world urges us to loosen our grip on principle in exchange for applause or ease, we must remember how quickly false light turns into immobilizing darkness.

In a world skilled at disguising corruption, the pursuit of truth becomes an act of quiet defiance. It is how we ensure that when darkness descends, we are not among those who vanish unnoticed, but among those who still shine, steady, enduring, and real.

In our world, darkness can masquerade as light, cloaked in language that sounds faithful to our mesorah but is, in truth, opposed to the sacred values and traditions handed down through the generations. It arrives gradually, through a steady drip of foreign ideas, methods, and attitudes, smoothly packaged in familiar words and comforting concepts. Disguised in this way, they slip past our defenses, quietly take root, and begin to reshape our thinking from within.

We must remain vigilant and steadfastly devoted to the mesorah of our rabbeim and parents, not allowing ourselves to be diverted from the path of growth, excellence in learning, and living as true Torah Jews. Our strength lies in constancy, in loyalty to the values that have guided our people through every golus and every challenge.

Just as a flashlight pierces the darkness of a night journey, so does the Torah illuminate our way. When a blackout descends, people do not surrender to the dark. They switch on lanterns to restore vision and allow life to continue. The Torah, as transmitted to us by our rabbeim, who are likened to malochim, is that lantern. As the world grows dim, gray, and confused, the Torah provides clarity, direction, and warmth.

At a time that cries out for illumination, each of us must add sparks. We must expose falsehood, clarify reality, and prepare ourselves and the world for Moshiach. So much is plainly evident, yet we watch as the world’s media, culture, and institutions twist facts to advance their agendas. In the broader world, darkness often prevails. Truth is optional, and falsehood carries little consequence.

Just as the Jews in Mitzrayim were subjugated by a hypocritical ruler and a duplicitous society, hypocrisy defines our age, increasingly so in its treatment of Jews. Nations with blood-soaked pasts lecture Israel for defending itself against terrorists bent on its destruction. Mass slaughter in Africa is met with silence, while Israel’s fight for survival sparks outrage and fixation. Iranians risk their lives in the streets demanding freedom, yet those who loudly chanted for a “Free Palestine” show no concern for them. Russia levels cities and commits atrocities, and it is met with weary acceptance. The spotlight remains fixed, relentlessly, on the lone Jewish state.

Meanwhile, Jews who once lived peacefully in Europe, the United States, and Canada now confront levels of anti-Semitism unseen in generations. From elementary schools to universities, hostility is not only tolerated but, in many cases, taught. Ancient libels, long thought buried, have been exhumed and repackaged as accepted truth. Modern media has given a megaphone to lunatics spewing disjointed hatred, allowing them to amass millions of followers eager to absorb the lies and once again fixate on the eternal scapegoat: the Jews.

The State of Israel was founded on the hope that sovereignty would end Jew-hatred and secure acceptance among the nations. History has delivered a harsher verdict.

Many are bewildered. Why the hatred? Why the double standards?

Those rooted in Torah are not perplexed. They know the answer articulated by the Ramban at the close of this week’s parsha.

Hashem brought the makkos to demonstrate that He created the world and governs it entirely. When He wills, nature proceeds as usual. When He wills otherwise, it bends instantly to His command. Nothing is random. Nothing is autonomous.

The Torah commands every generation to teach the next one about Yetzias Mitzrayim and its miracles. Doing so reminds us that Hashem orchestrates all events and that nothing “just happens.” There is meaning even when we do not grasp it. Hashem watches over each of us with care. Reward and consequence are real. We are never abandoned, and events do not unfold because of human moods, tyrants, rivals, or chance. They occur because Hashem wills them to, for reasons often beyond our understanding.

This is why so many mitzvos are zeicher l’Yetzias Mitzrayim. Remembering the makkos and the geulah from that sad situation reinforces that Hashem created, sustains, and directs everything in the world and in our lives.

As forces of falsehood and darkness contend for dominance, we must fortify our emunah and bitachon and live in a way that finds favor in Hashem’s eyes. We remain a nation of truth, morality, dignity, and integrity. We are not shaken by mockery, nor derailed by hypocrites, buffoons, or megaphone moralists.

Following the First World War, the Belzer Rebbe was forced to leave Belz due to hostilities and sought refuge in Hungary. As he began returning home, word spread that he would be stopping in the city of Holoshitz for Shabbos. Thousands of people from surrounding towns and cities made their way there, hoping for the rare opportunity to spend Shabbos in the presence of the great rebbe. Among them was Rabbi Naftoli Tzvi Ungar, who brought along his ten-year-old son. Many families did the same, unsure if they would ever have another chance to see the rebbe.

At the Friday night tish, however, the crowd was overwhelming. The young boy, eager to see the rebbe, was shoved and smacked by others pressing forward, all trying to catch a glimpse of the tzaddik. Terrified of being smacked again, the boy refused to accompany his father on Shabbos day, staying away from the rebbe’s tishen despite his yearning to be close.

At seudah shlishis, the rebbe asked Rabbi Ungar about his son’s whereabouts. Amazed that the rebbe had noticed that the boy was present at the Friday evening tish and then absent throughout Shabbos, Rabbi Ungar explained what had happened and that his son was afraid to return, lest he be smacked again.

The rebbe responded that Rabbi Ungar should tell his son, “Ah Yid tur nit dershreken ven her chapt ah gutteh klop — A Jew mustn’t be afraid when he gets a good smack.”

The rebbe was teaching that life is filled with moments that are uncomfortable, challenging, or even frightening. We encounter obstacles, slights, setbacks, and tests that shake our comfort and confidence. Yet, just as the “good smack” was not meant to harm the boy, so are the difficulties in our lives guided by Hashem’s hand. Nothing happens by accident, nothing is meaningless, and even what appears unpleasant can have purpose.

This lesson resonates profoundly when we consider the choshech of our own times. Just as Mitzrayim was shrouded in a darkness that paralyzed an entire nation, so does our modern world present illusions of light — values, ideas, and trends that glitter but are morally dim, that dazzle but corrupt. The darkness can be subtle, persuasive, and relentless. It challenges our vision, tests our faith, and tempts us to abandon what we know is true and sacred.

The Belzer Rebbe’s wisdom teaches that even in the face of such darkness, we need not fear. We may be jostled, misled, or even harmed by the pressures and smacks of life, yet Hashem’s guiding hand is always present. Just as the boy was reassured about the smack he had received, so must we trust that our emunah, bitachon, and perseverance are our light in the darkness. Torah and mitzvos are our lanterns, steady and reliable even when the world grows gray and black.

Illumination is not always gentle or easy. Sometimes the path forward requires courage, discipline, and steadfastness. Even when the world surges with hatred toward the Jewish people, even when false lights threaten to blind us, we hold fast to what we know is right, true, and eternal.

In a world of moral ambiguity, deception, and hostility, we must do our best to generate sparks of light. We must cultivate clarity, learn Torah on a deeper level, strengthen our emunah, be more careful in our kiyum hamitzvos, and shine by example. We should not shrink in the face of the dark, be deceived by illusions of brightness, or lose sight of the Divine guidance that watches over every Jew.

Torah and mitzvos are the enduring beacons of light, piercing the choshech that defines our time and carving a passage through the shadows. May they continue to illuminate our path, banish the darkness, and lead us swiftly to the coming of Moshiach.

The Art of Holding On

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The first posuk in this week’s parsha states that Hashem appeared to Moshe and reminded him of how He had revealed Himself to the avos and promised them Eretz Yisroel (6:2). He told Moshe that just as He remembers His bris with the avos, so does He hear the cries of the Bnei Yisroel and will act to redeem them. Hashem instructed Moshe to tell the Jewish people that their suffering would soon end, and that He Himself would free them from the shackles of Mitzrayim.

Rashi explains that this was in direct response to Moshe’s question at the end of last week’s parsha (5:22), when he asked, “Lomah harei’osah la’am hazeh — Why have You made things worse for Your people, and why have You sent me to speak to Paroh?” Hashem’s reply reassured Moshe that His promises are unfailing, and that Moshe’s mission was part of the Divine plan to fulfill the covenant He had made with the avos.

Moshe’s mission was never random or accidental. Every step of his journey — from his hidden birth to his upbringing in Paroh’s palace, from his golus in Midyan to the moment he encountered the burning bush — was part of Hashem’s plan. Each challenge, each hardship, was preparing him to lead the Jewish people out of bondage and into freedom. As we learn the parsha, we understand that the miracles of Moshe’s life were not just extraordinary events. They were signs of the Hand of Hashgocha, guiding him, shaping him, and preparing him to fulfill the promise made to the avos.

There are times in history when the world seems poised against us, when despair feels heavier than hope, and the night stretches endlessly before the dawn. In those periods we must remember that even when life is darkest, the flame of Hashem’s Hashgocha is never extinguished. From the very first cries of our people to the promise of redemption, the story of Klal Yisroel is one of survival, resilience, and faith.

In every generation, we have faced threats that seemed insurmountable. Empires sought our destruction. Tyrants demanded our silence. Even when our backs were against the wall, our spirits flickered, small, fragile, but alive. That flicker is what Hashem sees, what He nurtures, and what He calls upon us to protect and strengthen.

And so it was at the very beginning of the story of Moshe Rabbeinu. An infant, born in the shadow of death, placed in the Nile to float between life and death, became the instrument through which Hashem would reveal to the world that no oppression is final, no darkness is eternal, and no nation, however broken, is beyond hope.

Sometimes, a single act of courage, as small as placing a child in a basket, is enough to change the course of history.

At the time that Paroh decreed that every Jewish baby boy be put to death, Moshe was born quietly, hidden from the eyes of the Mitzriyim. His mother, Yocheved, understood the danger surrounding him. Every footstep, every knock at the door, carried mortal threat. Yet, she also understood that her child was not merely another infant. He was part of Hashem’s plan. With courage and deep emunah, she placed him into a small teivah and set it upon the waters of the Nile. His sister, Miriam, watched from a distance, ready to follow the teivah wherever the currents carried it, ensuring that her brother would survive.

That basket was more than a vessel for a baby. It was a declaration of faith and courage in a world determined to snuff out hope. In the midst of cruelty, Yocheved entrusted her child to Hashem, believing that life could triumph even in the face of imminent death.

Faith - emunah and bitachon - must come before understanding.

Paroh’s daughter found the basket, heard the baby cry, and felt compassion stir in her heart. She rescued him, bringing him into the palace, where he was raised as her own. There, in the very heart of Jewish oppression, the future redeemer of Klal Yisroel grew up.

Moshe was surrounded by wealth and power, yet his soul remained tethered to his people. When he left the palace and witnessed a Mitzri striking a Jew, he intervened, refusing to remain silent. That single act forced him to flee Mitzrayim, leaving the comfort of the palace for the uncertainty of exile. He arrived in Midyan, married the daughter of Yisro, and became a shepherd, tending his father-in-law’s flocks in the vast wilderness.

From the grandeur of palaces to the stillness of desert plains, Moshe’s life seemed to have taken a bewildering turn. Yet, it was in that quiet wilderness that Hashem would reveal Himself, teaching Moshe that even the most ordinary moments can harbor extraordinary purpose.

One day, Moshe noticed a sight that captured his attention: a bush continuously burning with fire, yet not being consumed. The flames danced upon its branches, blackening them, yet the bush remained whole. Moshe did not walk by. He stopped, turned aside, and stared. He recognized that this was not an ordinary fire. Something holy was unfolding.

The Medrash teaches that just as Avrohom Avinu studied the world and concluded that it could not exist without a Creator, Moshe perceived that Hakadosh Boruch Hu was announcing His Presence. The burning bush was a message: Jewish history may be scorched, battered, and surrounded by flames, but it will never be destroyed. Even when circumstances appear hopeless, Hashem’s providence is always present, sustaining life, guiding events, and preparing redemption.

Sometimes, the smallest spark carries infinite meaning.

From that bush, Hashem spoke to Moshe and entrusted him with a mission that would shape the course of history: to return to Mitzrayim and redeem His people.

Moshe, in his humility, asked what he should tell the Jewish people when they inquired who sent him. Hashem replied, “Ehkeh asher Ehkeh - I will be with them.” Not only at that moment, but in every suffering, every exile, and every trial that lay ahead. Hashem was telling Moshe that even when the world seems most hostile, He is present, guiding and sustaining the Jewish people.

Moshe was no longer merely a shepherd. He had become the messenger of redemption, tasked with announcing that hope exists even in the darkest of times.

One might imagine that such news would be received with overwhelming joy. A nation crushed under whips and chains would surely leap at the promise of freedom. Yet, when Moshe delivered Hashem’s message, the Torah recounts something striking: “Velo shomu el Moshe mikotzer ruach umei’avodah kasha - The people did not listen to Moshe because of shortness of spirit and crushing labor.”

They wanted to hear him. But they couldn’t. Their suffering had not only exhausted their bodies. It had crushed their souls. They were too dispirited and fragile to absorb hope. Even when salvation is imminent, the weight of despair can make it impossible to hear.

Sometimes, we must learn patience as well as hope.

This posuk teaches that suffering is not only physical. It can shrink the soul. When people are beaten down for too long, even good news sounds unreal. Even hope can feel unreachable.

This is not only history. It is the story of our time.

We live in a world of waiting. People are glued to their devices, scrolling endlessly, waiting for good news. Just over the past couple of years, we waited for the Gaza war to end. We waited for the hostages to come home. We waited for airlines to resume flights to Eretz Yisroel. We waited for a real president, for economic stability, and for interest rates to drop so we could afford homes. We waited for justice to be restored. Though at times it felt as if we were waiting in vain, our waits were answered.

And still, we wait. We wait for America to become great again. We wait for peaceful brotherhood to be restored to Eretz Yisroel. We wait for an end to the Gaza mess. We wait for a total end to the wicked leaders of Iran and the threat they represent to Israel. We wait for an end to progressive nonsense and a return to common sense. We wait for an end to the recent rash of anti-Semitic hatred.

And of course, above all, we wait for Moshiach.

We know that he will soon come and bring us what Moshe brought to the suffering people in Mitzrayim: the announcement that suffering has an end and redemption is near.

Yet, the danger of our age is not only the bad news we hear too often from within and beyond our community. The danger of our age is exhaustion. People become overwhelmed by fear, uncertainty, political instability, social hostility, and personal struggles. Instead of remaining optimistic and hopeful, too often, people become depleted mikotzer ruach. Their spiritual lungs shrink. They can no longer breathe in hope, and they cannot hear the message of redemption. Their predicament weakens them as they see no way out, no rising sun on the horizon.

Sometimes, strength must be renewed by noticing small sparks of light.

Each headline reminds us that golus is real and that safety is fragile. But even amidst fear, there are sparks of light. Even amidst darkness, Hashem’s presence is manifest.

We know that nothing happens by accident. Wars, upheavals, and economic crises are all chapters in a Divine story. The nevi’im spoke of such times, and we pray that these upheavals are the footsteps of Moshiach.

Yet, waiting is difficult when people are exhausted.

During World War I, Jewish life in Eastern Europe was decimated. Entire towns emptied. Families wandered with nothing. Yeshivos moved from place to place, surviving on crumbs. Young men were drafted into armies they would never return from.

A bochur once approached the Chofetz Chaim, broken and despairing. “Rebbe,” he cried, “ich ken nit oishalten - I can’t go on.” The Chofetz Chaim told him about Adam Harishon. On his first day in this world, when Adam saw the sun set, he thought the world was ending. He cried, believing that his sin had destroyed it all. But the next morning, he awoke and the sun rose. Adam then realized that this is how Hashem made the world. There is night, and then there is day.

The Chofetz Chaim told the boy who thought he could not hold on, that this is the way of the world. There is night, and then there is day. There is darkness, but it is always followed by light. Hold on just a little bit longer, and you will merit seeing the light.

We saw that truth after the Holocaust. Six million Jews were murdered. Communities were wiped out. Yet, from the ashes arose families, yeshivos, and flourishing Torah life. The sun rose again.

Those survivors had ruach, spirit. They believed that darkness was not the end.

The Ohr Hachaim explains that the Jews in Mitzrayim could not hear Moshe because they were not bnei Torah. Slavery had crushed them so completely that they could no longer hope or breathe freely.

We, who have been given the Torah, must not allow ourselves to become overwhelmed mikotzer ruach. When we study Torah, it connects us with Hashem and strengthens us, for we are fulfilling our purpose.

Studying Torah restores our bitachon, which allows us to widen our perspective and appreciate that the light of redemption - personal and communal - will soon shine.

That is the message of the burning bush. A Jew may be scorched, blackened, and battered, but never consumed. Within every neshomah burns a hidden flame, waiting to be ignited.

Ever since the terrible attacks of October 7^th and the subsequent anti-Semitic hatred those attacks spawned, we have seen that flame awaken in Jews around the world. People who felt distant from Torah and mitzvos began feeling the pull of identity, destiny, and purpose. Pain shook something loose. Hearts opened. The fire began to burn again.

We must never give up on any Jew. And we must never give up on ourselves.

So many people suffer not only because of their difficulties, but because those difficulties erode their self-confidence. When people begin to doubt themselves, when they feel powerless against life’s trials, even small obstacles can feel insurmountable. To remain trapped in a cycle of sadness and defeatism is to prevent oneself from discovering the inner strength that Hashem has placed within every soul.

Everyone must believe in themselves - in their resilience, in their capacity to endure, and in their ability to rise above the challenges they face. A nisayon, a test or challenge, is not meant to crush us. It is meant to refine us. It calls upon us to confront adversity with courage, to grow through it, and to emerge stronger, wiser, and more faithful than before.

When we see our hardships as temporary, when we embrace them as opportunities for self-improvement and spiritual growth, we reclaim the power to shape our lives. Even the darkest moments contain sparks of potential. But if we allow despair to dominate, those sparks remain hidden and we deny ourselves the chance to overcome, to shine, and to fulfill the purpose Hashem has set before us.

Faith in oneself, combined with faith in Hashem, is what transforms challenge into triumph. It allows a person to move forward when the world feels heavy and unyielding, turning every difficulty into a steppingstone toward strength, courage, and ultimate redemption.

When despair takes hold, it can distort everything we see. We begin to view the world through a shadowed lens, noticing only failure, conflict, and loss. Every piece of news, every personal setback, and every interaction feels magnified into a threat. The economy seems hopeless, relationships appear broken, communities feel fractured, and the world itself can seem hostile and unwelcoming.

But this perspective, as powerful as it feels, is not the full truth. Even when our hearts are heavy and our minds are clouded by pessimism, there is much goodness around us. There are people willing to lend a hand, communities ready to support, and opportunities for renewal waiting to be embraced. Often, all it takes is a shift in focus, and a willingness to open our eyes and hearts, to allow that help and kindness to enter.

Despair isolates, but hope connects. It reminds us that we are not alone. Even in the depths of hardship, we can find allies, encouragement, and light. When we lift our gaze above the shadows of our own suffering, we discover that the world contains far more warmth, generosity, and potential than we could have imagined.

The moment we allow ourselves to see that truth, even a small spark of hope can grow into a flame, guiding us toward action, renewal, and the strength to rise above our challenges. It is in those moments - when faith in ourselves intersects with faith in Hashem, when hope begins to shine despite darkness - that we begin to reclaim our ruach and our capacity to change our circumstances.

Just as Moshe stood before the burning bush, unsure and humble, yet chosen to lead Klal Yisroel out of darkness into freedom, so are we called to rise above our own doubts and despair. Hashem has placed within each of us a spark, a flame of potential, a neshomah capable of strength and resilience even when the world feels overwhelming. If we embrace that spark and nurture it with emunah, bitachon, faith, courage, and action, we can overcome every nisayon, break free from every cycle of sadness, and open ourselves to the light of redemption.

Let us remember that even when the darkness feels endless, the flame of Hashem’s providence is always present. Just as Moshe was sent to bring hope to a people weighed down by suffering, each of us has the capacity to rise, to act, to believe, and to see the good that surrounds us. In doing so, we participate in the eternal story of our people, a story in which despair never has the final word and redemption always awaits.

May we be zoche to experience the ultimate redemption very soon with the coming of Moshiach.

Tapestry of Redemption

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This week, we begin Sefer Shemos, the Sefer Hageulah. It is the sefer that tells the story of how a broken, enslaved people rose from the depths of despair to stand at Har Sinai to receive the Torah. It carries us from the bitterness of bondage to the ecstasy of redemption, from drowning terror at the Yam Suf to the highest spiritual moment in human history.

But Sefer Shemos is not merely a historical account. It teaches us what destroys a nation — and what saves it.

The Alter of Kelm would explain that just as Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov are called the avos because they laid the foundations of Yiddishkeit, so do the parshiyos of Sefer Shemos function as avos, forming the bedrock of our emunah and guiding us how to live as Jews.

How we treat other people defines us. It shapes our souls and announces, louder than any slogan, who we are. When we are attentive to others, when we notice them, value them, and appreciate them, we grow. We become capable of achdus. And through that unity, we become capable of far more than we ever could accomplish alone.

Hashem designed human beings to need one another. A person cannot thrive in isolation. From the moment we enter the world, we survive only through connection. As infants, we are utterly dependent. Even as adults, nearly everything we require to sustain our lives — food, shelter, education, health, security — comes from the labor and kindness of others. Every act of care, every hand extended, is part of the invisible network that sustains us.

Arrogance blinds people to this reality. Those who refuse to acknowledge how much they owe others imagine themselves self-made. It should be obvious that without the contributions of many other people, they would be hungry, lonely, ignorant, and lost. Everything we know, everything we have, exists because someone else cared enough to give. Appreciating even the smallest kindness is part of the lifeblood of community.

A meaningful life cannot be lived alone. Peirud — division — is not merely a social flaw. It is spiritual corrosion. It weakens communities and hollows out the people who cause it.

The Torah is filled with mitzvos that cultivate humility and gratitude, mitzvos that remind us that the world is sustained by kindness and that Hashem showers us with blessing every day. Whatever we pursue in life, we must remember the ultimate goal. Not winning arguments. Not momentary triumphs. But building something enduring. Unity makes our efforts last.

The Torah tells us in Devorim (7:7) that Hashem did not choose us because we were many. We are, in fact, the smallest of the nations. And yet, when we are united, we become greater than the sum of our parts. Our deeds combine. Our merits accumulate. Other nations may be larger, but when we have achdus, no one can overtake us.

We must learn how to move forward together, not as individuals who happen to share a label, but as a people bound by shared purpose. Loving another Jew does not require agreement, and appreciating another Jew does not require seeing the world through the same lens. What matters is the shared neshomah beneath the surface, the spark that unites us despite our differences. When we recognize that spark, unity becomes real, lived, and enduring.

Even before Moshe Rabbeinu was born, this lesson was already being written. Shifra and Puah, his mother and sister, risked their lives to save others. They were renowned for their righteousness and rose to achieve levels of nevuah. Yet, despite their overarching greatness, the Torah refers to them by the names given them for their acts of kindness involving infants. Their identity was chesed. In reward for their chesed, they merited dynasties of Kehunah, Leviyah, and Malchus.

Kindness is greatness.

Moshe Rabbeinu survived because of chesed. A helpless infant, placed in a basket among the reeds, was saved by Basya, the daughter of Paroh. She named him Moshe, “because I drew him from the water.” The Maharal teaches that although Moshe had many names, this is the one by which he is eternally known, because it reflects an act of compassion. The Torah is Toras Chesed. Even Hashem calls Moshe by a name rooted in kindness.

Moshe’s greatness did not come from the palace. It came from his heart. The Torah says, “Vayigdal hayeled — And the youth grew.” How? “Vayeitzei el echov vayar besivlosam.” He left comfort behind and went out to feel the pain of his brothers. Though raised as royalty, walled off from what was going on, he took it upon himself to leave the blissful comfort of the royal palace to view what was happening in the lives of the lower classes. The suffering that he saw changed him forever.

When he saw a Jew being beaten, he intervened. When he saw a Jew striking another Jew, he recoiled in horror. “Achein noda hadovor,” he cried. Now I understand. Redemption cannot come where Jews fight one another. Disunity locks the gates of geulah.

That day’s events forced him to leave Mitzrayim. Upon escaping to Midyon, Moshe’s first act was chesed, standing up for vulnerable strangers at a well. That kindness led to his future, his family, and his destiny.

The Sefer Hachareidim writes at the conclusion of the sefer that prior to his passing from this world, Yaakov Avinu called for his sons, the twelve shevotim, and said to them, “Hikovtzu v’shimu bnei Yaakov — Gather together the sons of Yaakov.” He then told them that they should rid their hearts of jealousy, hatred, and competition, and view each other as if they are one person with one soul. Yaakov told them that if they could not achieve that unity, the Shechinah would not be able to rest among them.

The Rishonim (Rashi, Rabbeinu Bachya, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam) explain the pesukim (Shemos 29:45–46) which state that Am Yisroel “should know that I, Hashem Elokeihem, took them out of Mitzrayim so that I can dwell among them.” They write that this means that Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim in order for us to build the Mishkon. This denotes that they were unified at the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim or else they would not have been redeemed, for the Shechinah can only rest among us, and in the Mishkon, where we are united. Had we not been b’achdus, and had there been peirud, Hashem would not have removed us from there.

The pattern repeats throughout history. In every golus and every geulah, chesed and achdus are decisive. They carried us out of Mitzrayim, and they will carry us forward again.

If we remember who we are, if we reach for one another instead of turning away, we can build something radiant and enduring. Even small acts of appreciation — a kind word, a gesture of help — ripple outward, strengthening the bonds that protect and sustain the klal.

Our Torah is Toras Moshe, the inheritance of a gentle shepherd who led with compassion. It must be taught and lived in a way that builds people, not breaks them. Greatness is tied to sensitivity to the klal and to every individual within it. Such sensitivity awakens Heavenly mercy. Greatness is formed through many small acts of kindness born of an appreciation for every person and their needs and emotions.

The Torah says that after the passing of all the shevotim, there arose a “new” Paroh who did not know Yosef. Rashi explains that according to one view, this was not a new king at all. It was the same Paroh, who chose to pretend that Yosef had never existed. Gratitude became inconvenient. History was rewritten.

This tactic is ancient and familiar: Isolate, discredit, demonize.

The newly installed president of Venezuela and other leftists and anti-Semites blamed “the Zionists” for President Trump’s takedown of the dictator Nicolas Maduro. Facts were distorted, history was bent, and Jews were once again cast as convenient villains for events they did not create.

Actions concurrent with the inauguration of New York City’s new mayor were disconcerting to many Jews who are concerned about the direction he will take.

As Shabbos departs and the melava malka candles flicker, we feel the ache of transition, from light to labor, from holiness to struggle. We sing, “Al tira avdi Yaakov.” Do not fear. With the voice, restraint, and faith of Yaakov, we can endure.

Together, we hold the key to redemption. We come from different lands, speak different languages, and follow different customs. But beneath it all, we are family. One on one, Jews get along. We must not allow labels to tear us apart.

Where others bring darkness, we must bring light. Where others sow loneliness, we must offer brotherhood. When we are divided, Amaleik gains strength. When we stand k’ish echad b’lev echad, no force can overcome us.

We cry together. We rejoice together. We live for one another. We have tasted what redemption feels like.

Let us hold onto that taste. Let us strengthen achdus, deepen love, and remember that we are part of something larger than ourselves so that we can merit the geulah.

Unity does not mean sameness. Achdus does not demand that we think alike, dress alike, or experience life in the same way. Klal Yisroel has always been a tapestry woven from different strands, from the time of the twelve shevotim, each distinct in nature and approach, each bringing a different koach to the same sacred mission. Yehudah’s leadership, Yissochor’s depth, and Zevulun’s support are not competing paths, but complementary ones.

Our diversity is not a sign of weakness. It is a source of strength. A people built from many perspectives is more resilient, more complete, and better able to meet complex challenges. When different strengths stand together, blind spots are covered, balance is created, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Achdus is not forged by erasing difference, but by weaving difference into a shared purpose.

Loving another Jew does not depend on agreement. Appreciating another Jew does not require us to see the world through identical lenses. It asks only that we recognize the shared shoresh beneath the surface, the common destiny that binds us together even when our paths look different. We do not have to blur distinctions in order to maintain connection.

When differences are handled gently, they enrich us. When they are handled harshly, they wound. Achdus is sustained not by winning debates, but by preserving dignity. It grows when we listen a little longer, judge a little less, and remember that the person before us is more than a position or a label.

Every Jew carries a cheilek Eloka mimaal, a spark of the Divine worthy of care and respect. When we speak kindly, when we give the benefit of the doubt, when we assume sincerity even where we disagree, we create an environment in which unity can breathe. Disagreement does not have to fracture us. Handled with warmth, it can deepen understanding.

Achdus is often built quietly, through patience, restraint, and small acts of consideration. It is found in choosing compassion over suspicion and connection over distance. When we relate to one another as people rather than categories, unity becomes not an ideal, but a lived reality.

There are many lessons for us in the parshiyos of Seder Shemos, but the need for achdus to bring about geulah is a primary one, especially during these times of darkening clouds as we pine for the geulah and Moshiach.

We don’t always have to agree, but when we disagree, it needs to be with respect and without hatred, as bnei and bnos Torah and not as people devoid of middos and derech eretz. Let us work to make ourselves worthy of having the Shechinah dwell among us, so that Hakadosh Boruch Hu can feel confident enough to bring us all home, surrounding the Bais Hamikdosh, with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our day.