The Courage to Stand Apart

As we learn this week about Noach and the Mabul, we encounter a description of the world that is devastating and unsettling. The pesukim (Bereishis 6:11-12) tell us, “Vatishocheis ha’aretz lifnei ha’Elokim vatimolei ha’aretz chomos — The world had become corrupt before Hashem, and the earth was filled with thievery.” The Torah continues, “Vayar Hashem es ha’aretz vehinei nishchosah — Hashem saw the earth, and behold, it had become corrupt.”

Acharonim note a striking feature of these pesukim. The Torah describes a world consumed by corruption, a society steeped in theft, violence, immorality, and the abandonment of basic decency. Yet, when the Torah speaks of seeing the corruption, it singles out that Hashem is the One who observed what was happening: “Vayar Hashem.” Hashem saw what had become of His world. The implication is that the people inhabiting that world did not see what was unfolding around them. Either they were so deeply implicated in the wrongdoing that they could no longer see it clearly or they had become so accustomed to their surroundings that nothing about the prevailing behavior seemed unusual.

How could an entire civilization descend to such a level without recognizing what was happening? How could people live amid rampant theft and violence, surrounded by moral decay, and carry on as though everything were perfectly normal?

Perhaps the answer is that corruption rarely announces itself as corruption. It advances gradually, one compromise at a time, until yesterday’s outrage becomes today’s accepted practice. What once would have shocked the conscience becomes commonplace. What once demanded protest becomes a subject of indifference. Eventually, people no longer ask whether their behavior is right or wrong. They ask only whether it is customary, whether others are doing it, and whether they can get away with it.

Not only were the people of Noach’s generation committing terrible sins, but their society had lost the ability to recognize those sins for what they were. The corruption had become so pervasive that the distinction between right and wrong had blurred, until the abnormal had become normal and the indefensible had become accepted.

When an individual sins, there may still be a conscience that troubles him, a voice that reminds him that he has crossed a line. But when an entire society embraces the wrongdoing, that voice becomes easier to silence. People reassure one another that there is nothing wrong with what they are doing. They point to their neighbors, their friends, and the accepted practices of their time. The oldest excuse in the book is that “everyone is doing it,” and if everyone is doing it, then it can’t possibly be wrong.

Yet, the fact that an entire world accepts something does not make it right. A society can reach a consensus and still be profoundly mistaken. An entire generation can lose its moral bearings while remaining convinced that it is right.

We see this in the way nations condemn Israel and promote the modern-day blood libel that the Jewish state is guilty of genocide. We see it in the world’s most prestigious award being given to a Jew-hater who promotes the genocide charge. We see it in the antisemitic marches in European capitals, in the legislation Western nations enact against Israel, and in the growing hostility toward Israel and the Jewish people within the American Democratic Party.

And this lesson must give us pause closer to home as well. At a time when more Jews are devoting their lives to Torah, and when chesed and tzedokah are being performed on a scale that may be unprecedented in our long history, we must also confront the troubling reality that certain forms of contemptible conduct within our own community are becoming increasingly accepted. The extraordinary growth of Torah and chesed does not absolve us of the responsibility to recognize what is wrong among us.

The Torah’s description of the Mabul teaches us that this is not merely a historical curiosity. It is one of the great dangers facing human society in every age. When the standards of right and wrong are determined by what people do rather than by what they should do, the very idea of a moral standard begins to disappear. Instead of asking whether our behavior meets the demands of truth and justice, we judge truth and justice by whether they accommodate our behavior.

The tragedy of Noach’s generation was that its people apparently no longer saw the tragedy.

There is a remarkable lesson in the Torah’s identification of the particular sin that filled the earth, namely chomos, thievery. Chazal teach that the people of that generation had become so accustomed to stealing that they devised ways of taking from one another in amounts so small that the victims could not obtain legal redress. Each individual act might have appeared insignificant, but when everyone participated, the cumulative result was the destruction of society.

This is what happens when people stop respecting the rights of others. The first theft may be accompanied by discomfort, the second by a little less hesitation, and eventually a person can reach a point where he no longer finds anything wrong with taking what belongs to someone else. He finds excuses, identifies loopholes, and persuades himself that what he is doing is acceptable. Others do the same, and soon the entire society operates by standards that would once have been unthinkable.

The members of the generation of the Mabul did not necessarily need to become spectacular villains, each committing some extraordinary act of wickedness. They needed only to create a world in which everyone felt entitled to take a little, excuse a little, and disregard the other person a little. When those small acts became the accepted way of life, the society became corrupt.

The lesson reaches far beyond theft. Whenever people become accustomed to dishonesty, cruelty, exploitation, or the humiliation of others, they gradually lose their sensitivity to the damage they cause. The question is no longer whether another person has been wronged, but whether the wrongdoing is common enough to be excused. The more widespread a practice becomes, the less likely people are to challenge it, and the less likely they are to recognize the harm it inflicts.

This is how a society can deteriorate without experiencing a moment of collective alarm. There is no single morning when everyone awakens and announces that right and wrong no longer matter. Instead, the standards erode little by little, until people look around and see nothing unusual in what has become of them.

And that is the lesson of Noach.

The Torah tells us, “Noach ish tzaddik tomim hayah bedorosav es ha’Elokim hishalech Noach — Noach was a righteous and wholehearted man in his generations; Noach walked with Hashem.”

Noach lived in the same world as everyone else. He breathed the same air, encountered the same people, and witnessed the same conduct that had become ordinary in his surroundings. He was spared the influence of his society because, while the others accepted the standards of their generation, Noach measured his conduct by the will of Hashem. If Noach knew that Hashem considered that conduct wrong, Noach’s guide was Hashem, not public opinion, not what everyone did, what everyone bought, or where everyone went. He kept himself accountable to a higher standard.

Noach measured the world against the will of Hashem rather than measuring the will of Hashem against the world.

That distinction is fundamental.

It is relatively easy to recognize wrongdoing when everyone around us condemns it. When a society agrees that an act is shameful, a person can maintain his integrity without having to question the assumptions of his friends or challenge the practices of his community. The real test arrives when the prevailing culture has accepted something that the Torah rejects, when a person must choose between the approval of those around him and his responsibility to Hashem.

That is when a person discovers whether his standards are rooted in Torah or merely borrowed from his surroundings.

Hashem instructed Noach to build the teivah over an extended period so that he could carry on discussions with the people of his day and seek to influence them to mend their ways. Though Noach’s efforts proved fruitless, he himself wasn’t swayed by the degradation of the society around him and remained committed to acting according to the will of Hashem. Though he was constantly mocked, he continued building the teivah as Hashem had commanded him.

That is the responsibility of a Jew in every generation. We cannot control the moral climate of the world, and we cannot always persuade others to recognize what is wrong. But we are responsible for ensuring that the standards by which we live our lives do not become casualties of the society around us.

We live in a world in which the language of morality is constantly invoked, but the meaning of morality is increasingly contested. Conduct that was once regarded as shameful can be celebrated, while those who object are dismissed as backward, intolerant, or out of touch.

Just because something is popular, widely promoted, and accepted by influential people does not mean that it is right. Popularity is not proof of truth, and acceptance is not evidence of righteousness.

The world can applaud something that is wrong, just as an entire generation can become accustomed to behavior that destroys the fabric of society. If we allow the prevailing culture to determine our standards, we risk losing the ability to distinguish between what is right and what is merely fashionable.

This danger is not confined to the larger society. It exists within our world as well. A person can become accustomed to speaking improperly, treating another person unfairly, wasting precious time, or making compromises in his hanhogah until what once troubled him no longer registers. He may continue to regard himself as an honest person, a responsible person, and a ben Torah, even as he gradually adjusts his standards to accommodate his behavior.

The danger is not only that we may do something wrong. It is that we may reach a point where we no longer recognize it as wrong.

A person who knows that he has stumbled can seek to correct himself. A person who has convinced himself that there is nothing to correct has closed the door to improvement.

That is why the Torah’s description of Noach’s generation should give us pause. It teaches us to consider not only what we are doing, but how we judge what we are doing. Are our standards determined by the Torah, or do we slowly, and perhaps unknowingly, adjust our understanding of Torah to accommodate the standards around us? Are we troubled when we see something wrong, or have we become so accustomed to it that we no longer notice or care? Do we examine our conduct honestly, or do we find comfort in the knowledge that others behave the same way?

Noach’s generation became so immersed in its conduct that its people lost the ability to recognize where their choices were leading. The world was filled with chomos, and yet the corruption had become ordinary. What should have been a cause for alarm had become the background of everyday life.

Noach teaches us that we must preserve the ability to see clearly, even when those around us have lost it.

There is a reason that the Torah tells us that Noach walked with Hashem. A person who leads his life by what everyone else does gets swept away in the tide of hedonism, self-indulgence, and a way of life incongruous with Torah values.

Noach reminds us that when the entire world goes astray, righteousness may look strange and may feel lonely. When everyone goes somewhere and you don’t, it may appear as if you are the one missing out, but, in fact, you are like Noach in the teivah, living life the way it was meant to be lived.

Over the Yomim Noraim and Sukkos, we invested much effort in reaching higher levels of ruchniyus, striving to improve ourselves, strengthen our connection with Hashem, and carry the inspiration of those exalted days into the year ahead. The task of those days was to work to elevate ourselves above the distractions of the world and draw closer to the person we know we can become.

As we return to regular life, what we gained over Tishrei is vulnerable to the murky floodwaters of a society in which the lines between right and wrong are increasingly blurred and our generational values can gradually be eroded.

As we learn this week’s parsha and return to school and yeshiva, we must take the lesson of Parshas Noach to heart and work to go against the flow rather than get swept away by the challenges to our mesorah and Torah way of life.

We can choose the standards by which we live, the influences to which we expose ourselves, and the values we transmit to our children. By remaining loyal to Torah and its values and doing what we can to bring goodness and ruchniyus into the world around us, we build our personal teivah, a place of refuge in which our families can remain anchored even as the waters rise around us.

We may not be able to keep the world from sinking, but we can ensure that we do not allow ourselves to sink with it. We can act as our grandfather Noach did, attempt to influence those around us, seek to make the world a better place, and help prepare the world for the coming of Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov.

Bereishis: Why We Are Here

The Torah begins by telling us the story of creation, Bereishis. The Torah introduces us to the creation of the universe, the formation of the world in which we live, and the emergence of mankind, the one creation entrusted with the ability to recognize its Creator and choose how to live.

Yet, as Rashi reminds us at the beginning of the parsha, the Torah is not a history book. It is not intended merely to tell us how the world came into existence or to provide us with an account of the earliest generations of mankind. The Torah is our guide to life, teaching us how to conduct ourselves, how to relate to Hashem and to one another, and how to fulfill the purpose for which we were created. Why, asks Rashi, does the Torah begin with the story of creation and devote the entire first parsha to creation and the lives of Adam and Chava, Kayin and Hevel, and the generations that preceded Avrohom Avinu? Why not begin with the mitzvos, with the commandments that define our obligations as Jews?

Rashi explains that the Torah begins with Bereishis to establish that the entire world belongs to Hashem. He created it, and He determines who will inhabit its lands. When the nations of the world accuse Klal Yisroel of stealing Eretz Yisroel, we can respond that the One Who created the world gave the land to us.

This is a fundamental lesson in our understanding of the world and our place in it. Hakadosh Boruch Hu created the world and placed us in it, entrusting us with the responsibility to live in accordance with His will. The land we inhabit, the resources we enjoy, the talents with which we were endowed, and the very lives we lead are gifts from Hashem. Everything we possess comes with an obligation to use it properly.

Before the Torah tells us what to do, it tells us why we are here. Before it presents the mitzvos that shape our lives, it establishes that the world was created deliberately, with purpose and with direction. The universe is not a random collection of events, and human life is not an accident without meaning. Everything begins with Hashem, and everything we do must be understood in the context of His creation and His will.

The Torah tells us that man was created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of Hashem. This is perhaps the most profound statement about the human condition. Man is not simply another creature inhabiting the earth. The posuk tells us that Hashem created man from adomah and blew into him the spirit of life, nishmas chaim. He endowed us with a neshomah, the ability to speak, the capacity to think and understand, the ability to distinguish between right and wrong, to exercise bechirah, and to make choices that have eternal significance.

The greatness of a person does not lie in his physical strength, his wealth, intelligence, or accomplishments in the eyes of the world. His greatness lies in his ability to transcend the adomah from which he was created, from which flow his physical instincts and desires, and to give sustenance to his neshomah, as our lives are meant to be dedicated to fulfilling the spiritual purposes for which we were placed in this world.

That is the challenge of tzelem Elokim. We are given extraordinary abilities, but those abilities carry extraordinary responsibility. We can build and destroy, encourage and discourage, bring happiness and cause pain. We can use our intelligence to discover new ways to improve the world or to devise ways to harm others. We can use our words to comfort a person who is suffering or to inflict wounds that may never heal.

We are not passive observers in the world. We are active participants. The first human beings were placed in Gan Eden, a world of extraordinary beauty and abundance. They were given everything they needed, with one clear restriction.

Adam and Chava’s failure to heed that command introduced a fundamental reality of human existence. Having free will means that a person can choose incorrectly, even when the right path is clear. The challenge of life is not merely to know what Hashem wants from us, but to overcome the inclinations and temptations that lead us away from it.

And when Adam sinned, Hashem asked him, “Ayeka? Where are you?”

Hashem certainly knew where Adam was. The question was not about his physical location. It was an invitation to confront what had happened, to recognize his responsibility, and to consider where his choices had brought him.

That question echoes throughout the generations. Where are we? What are we doing with the lives Hashem has given us? Are we using our abilities to fulfill our purpose, or are we allowing ourselves to be distracted by pursuits that have little lasting value? Are we moving closer to Hashem, or are we allowing the pressures and attractions of the world to draw us away?

It is a question that each of us must ask ourselves, not only during the introspective days of Elul and the Yomim Noraim, but throughout the year. A person can be busy from morning until night, accomplishing one task after another, and still lose sight of where he is going. He can accumulate wealth and achieve recognition and relevance without addressing the most important question of whether he is living the life Hashem wants him to live.

On Shemini Atzeres, in the diaspora we lained Koheles. Various reasons are given for this minhag, but perhaps one of its messages is that Koheles helps seal in the gains we made during Elul and Tishrei. After spending these weeks examining our lives, our priorities, and our relationship with Hashem, we are reminded that so much of what occupies people in this world is ultimately hevel, fleeting and without lasting significance. The challenge is not to withdraw from the world, but to learn to distinguish between what is hevel and what is important, between what demands our attention and what deserves our attention, between what fills our days and what gives those days meaning.

Along with that comes the responsibility to recognize Hashem and see His hand in all aspects of our lives.

We are required to do hishtadlus. We work and seek to earn a living, but we recognize that whatever we have is because Hashem gave it to us. The work is a means, but the income comes from Hashem.

We build armies, establish security services, create sophisticated intelligence systems, check credentials, erect fences, and take every reasonable precaution to protect ourselves. But we must never confuse the means with the source. The systems are tools. The protection comes from Hashem.

This week, Israel and Jews throughout the world marked the third anniversary of the October 7^th massacre, a day on which we were reminded of that truth in a most painful way.

Israel possesses one of the world’s most powerful armies and most sophisticated security establishments. It has intelligence agencies considered among the finest anywhere, advanced surveillance systems, layers of fences and barriers, and countless people whose responsibility is to identify threats and protect the country’s citizens.

And yet, on that morning, those systems failed simultaneously. Warnings were missed. Signals were ignored. Assumptions were wrong. The people whose job it was to prevent such an attack were unable to do so. It was a fulfillment of the posuk, “Einayim lohem velo yiru oznayim lohem velo yishma’u.” The eyes of the nation’s security apparatus were simply closed.

We were reminded that, ultimately, it is not the army that protects us, not the intelligence agencies, not the fences, and not the technology.

Hashem Hu Ha’Elokim.

The One Who created the world is the One Who runs it.

And just last week, we received another extraordinary reminder of that truth, this time in the skies.

The attempted terrorist attack aboard a flight bound for Tel Aviv could easily have ended with the deaths of everyone aboard and potentially many on the ground. The co-pilot, who had previously been identified by his former employer as a security risk, attacked the captain in the cockpit and attempted to take control of the aircraft. The plane plunged thousands of feet in a matter of seconds. Passengers were thrown from their seats. The cockpit became a scene of violence and chaos.

And yet, the plane did not crash. The passengers did not die.

The subsequent investigation revealed serious questions about the security procedures governing foreign airlines and their crews. Israel had systems in place, protocols, departments, and databases, but it emerged that foreign pilots were not being independently vetted in the manner one might have assumed. The responsibility was divided among different agencies, but the crucial information was not being acted upon. Had they been doing their jobs, the Jew-hating co-pilot never would have been allowed to board the plane and be seated in the cockpit.

If the flying public’s safety depended on human beings, people would have every reason to be terrified every time they get on a plane.

Instead, we are reminded that our safety rests with Hashem.

And the miracle of the FlyDubai flight went far beyond the failures of the security system.

The heroism of people aboard the plane is credited with saving the plane from crashing to the ground and killing everyone on board, but it was a series of miraculous occurrences that allowed that heroism to occur. The passengers have rightly been hailed as heroes. They saw what was happening and acted with extraordinary courage.

A woman who happened to be standing near the cockpit heard the commotion and began screaming. Several passengers rushed toward the cockpit, overpowered the attacker, and restrained him. Others cared for the wounded captain. They guarded the cockpit and helped ensure that the plane could be landed safely.

But even their heroism was possible only because of a remarkable chain of events that unfolded at precisely the right moments.

The captain, gravely wounded, losing much blood and under continued attack, miraculously retained the strength and presence of mind to open the cockpit door. Had that door remained closed, the passengers would have had no way to reach him or the attacker.

A plumber who happened to be sitting relatively close to the cockpit heard what was happening and rushed forward. He pulled the attacker away from the captain, and as others dealt with him, the plumber, with no previous flying experience, found himself in a cockpit with a plunging aircraft. He had once seen how a plane’s control stick raises and lowers the plane, and he lifted the controls with all his might to get the plane to fly upward.

He had no training that should have qualified him to fly a Boeing 737. Yet, at that moment, when 170 lives were in jeopardy, Hashem put the idea into his head of how to save them.

There were other seemingly unlikely occurrences as well.

Additional pilots happened to be aboard the flight as passengers. A dentist who happened to be on board was able to provide critical medical assistance to the wounded captain. Passengers found charging cables and other materials that could be improvised to restrain the attacker. Men and women who had been strangers only minutes earlier suddenly worked together as a team, each one doing whatever he or she could to save the lives of everyone aboard.

The world calls such things coincidence. It calls them luck. It speaks of fortunate circumstances and improbable happenstance.

We know better.

We know that there is no happenstance. There is only the Ribono Shel Olam, Who runs the world and Who can arrange a thousand details, many of them invisible to us, so that they converge at precisely the moment they are needed.

It is interesting that both of these events occurred during the days of Sukkos and Shemini Atzeres, when we celebrate how Hashem protected us from the elements in the midbar and as we were about to begin studying Bereishis.

We left our homes, the places that provide us with walls, roofs, locks, alarm systems, and the illusion of permanence, and we entered the sukkah. We sat beneath a roof that does not really protect us from the elements, as we experienced when it rained over Yom Tov. We left behind the physical structures in which we invest so much of our energy and reminded ourselves that our true protection does not come from them.

We sat in the sukkah, in the tzila demehemnusa, the shade of the Shechinah, and proclaimed that the walls around us are not what guarantee our safety. The roof over our heads is not what determines whether we will be protected. We have to take reasonable precautions. But after all the hishtadlus has been made, we recognize that the One above is the One Who protects us.

And then we return to Bereishis.

Why does the Torah begin by telling us that Hashem created the world?

Because we need to know that the world is not governed by chance, that history is not a series of random events, and that our lives are not determined solely by the decisions of men and the systems they construct.

The same Hashem Who created the heavens and the earth can cause the most powerful security establishment to overlook a threat. He can cause a warning to be missed. He can allow a plane to descend thousands of feet and then, through a series of seemingly random events, provide the precise people and abilities needed to save it.

He can place a plumber in a particular seat and turn him into a pilot. He can place a dentist on a particular flight and turn him into an emergency doctor. He can place additional pilots on a plane and give a dying captain the strength to open a door. And He can bring all of those seemingly unrelated details together at exactly the moment when they are needed.

That is not merely the lesson of last week’s FlyDubai flight, nor is it only the lesson of October 7^th, when the army couldn’t prevent the rampage and was powerless to stop it.

It is the lesson of our daily lives, when every day is filled with miracles we take for granted.

Bereishis bara Elokim — Hashem created it all. He runs it. He guides it. He determines its course.

We do our hishtadlus. We are not permitted to sit back and rely on miracles. But after we have done what we can, we recognize the truth with which the Torah begins and upon which everything else rests — namely, that Hashem runs the world.

His ways are mysterious and not always understood. We cannot always see why one person is saved and another is not, why one warning is heard and another is missed, or why one seemingly insignificant event becomes the link that saves hundreds of lives.

We don’t know why one person becomes ill and another remains healthy, why one person becomes wealthy while another struggles financially, or why one person’s life seems to contain far more suffering and challenges than another’s. We cannot understand the ways of Hashem or the reasons for the individual tests He sends to each of us. But we know that nothing happens by itself and nothing happens without purpose. Hashem sends us the challenges we need to help us grow, to strengthen our emunah, and to bring us closer to Him.

We must never give up. We must never convince ourselves that our challenges are insurmountable or that we cannot overcome them. Those who recognize the Yad Hashem, place their trust in Him, and believe that He is with them through every challenge can face life with confidence, knowing that Hashem will give them the strength to persevere and overcome.

Bereishis bara Elokim. Chazal teach that the world was created for reishis, for Klal Yisroel and for Torah. Hashem created the world for us. He created it with the expectation that we would be able to accomplish our mission in it. The world was not created to defeat us. It was created to provide us with opportunities, challenges, and circumstances through which we can fulfill the purpose for which we were placed here.

We should therefore never allow anything or anyone to break our spirit, and we should never allow anyone to convince us that we cannot succeed. No matter what happens, no matter what challenges confront us, we must remember that we are living in Hashem’s world and that the One Who created the world is with us every step of the way. With emunah, bitachon, and the determination to continue moving forward, we can overcome the obstacles placed before us and accomplish what Hashem expects of us.

This week, as we return to the rhythm of life after Yom Tov, and as we begin studying Parshas Bereishis, we need to carry these lessons with us. The warmth and inspiration of Elul, the Yomim Noraim, Sukkos, Shemini Atzeres, and Simchas Torah should not remain behind with the Yom Tov.

The days ahead may be colder and darker, and the long winter may sometimes seem bleak. But we enter it with the light of Bereishis bara Elokim. Hashem created the world, He guides its every detail, and He placed us here because He knows that we are capable of fulfilling the purpose for which we were created.

We have every reason to move forward with emunah, with bitachon, and with confidence that, with Hashem’s help, we can succeed.

May we all be zoche to a gezunteh vinter and the geulah sheleimah bekarov.

True Happiness

One of the great ironies of life is that we spend so much of it trying to achieve the very thing that we often find most difficult to hold on to.

We want to be happy. We want our homes to be happy, our families to be happy, and our children to be happy. We want to be surrounded by happiness. Yet, too often, happiness is elusive. We can spend years working toward something we are certain will bring us satisfaction, only to discover that once we have attained it, the feeling we anticipated does not quite last. The new home becomes familiar, the accomplishment becomes yesterday’s news, the long-awaited vacation ends, and the thing we once imagined would make everything feel right simply becomes another part of our lives.

It is not that these things do not bring happiness. They do. A beautiful simcha, a nachas-filled moment, a meaningful accomplishment, a family gathering, a good piece of news - these are genuine sources of joy. The question is why the joy they bring so often seems to fade and why a person can possess so much of what he once dreamed of having and still find himself searching for something more.

Perhaps the answer begins with the simple distinction that there is a difference between having reasons to be happy and knowing how to be happy.

A person can have many blessings and fail to experience them as blessings. He can live surrounded by people he loves and remain preoccupied with what is missing. He can be blessed with health, family, Torah, parnossah, and steady kindnesses from Hashem, yet spend his days measuring his life against someone else’s and wondering why he does not have what the other person has. Happiness is not determined by what a person possesses. It is determined by what he sees when he looks at his life.

The Torah understands this profoundly. Simcha is not presented as a luxury, an emotional bonus that comes naturally when circumstances happen to cooperate. It is something we are commanded to pursue and cultivate. And when the Torah speaks of the Yomim Tovim, it commands us, “Vesomachta bechagecha - You shall rejoice on Yom Tov.”

Yet, one Yom Tov is singled out in a remarkable way.

Chazal refer to Pesach as Zeman Cheiruseinu, the time of our freedom, when we went from slavery to freedom; from being under the control of Mitzrayim to becoming a nation.

Shavuos is referred to as Zeman Matan Toraseinu, the time when we received the Torah.

Sukkos is referred to as Zeman Simchoseinu, our time of joy.

The name bears a strong message for us, especially in our day.

As the posuk (Vayikra 23:43) says, the Yom Tov of Sukkos commemorates the sukkos in which Hashem sheltered us in the midbar. Sukkos has distinctive mitzvos: the obligation to dwell in the sukkah and the mitzvah of daled minim.

Yet, when Chazal seek to tell us what Sukkos is, they do not call it the time of the sukkah or the time of the arba minim. They refer to it as a time of simcha.

What did Chazal see in Sukkos that makes simcha not merely one of its themes, but its very identity?

Chazal saw in Sukkos the root of happiness.

Happiness always seems to be just a little bit ahead of us. We can almost see it, and we are certain that we will catch up with it when the next thing happens, when the next problem is resolved, when the next accomplishment is achieved, or when the next long-awaited moment finally arrives. And then it does arrive, and we enjoy it, sometimes immensely, but before long, we find ourselves looking ahead once again, waiting for the next thing that we believe will bring us the happiness that seems to have slipped just beyond our reach.

What is it that makes a person happy? Happy people are not necessarily those who have the most, and unhappy people are not necessarily those who have the least.

Quite often, in Yerushalayim, you will meet people who live with their ten children in tiny apartments, and they seem to be the happiest people alive. And then you can read about the wealthiest people and they are miserable. The richest man in the world recently wrote that “whoever said ‘money can’t buy happiness’ really knew what they were talking about.”

So how do we attain happiness? What is the secret?

We are commanded to serve Hashem with joy, and when the Torah speaks about the Yomim Tovim, it repeatedly emphasizes the obligation of vesomachta bechagecha, to rejoice on this Yom Tov.

What is it about Sukkos that makes simcha its defining characteristic? Why is this the Yom Tov that Chazal identify specifically with happiness? What does Sukkos teach us about something every human being wants so desperately - the secret of being genuinely happy?

We are taught to serve Hashem with simcha, and the Yomim Tovim are specifically associated with the obligation of “vesomachta bechagecha,” to rejoice during the Yomim Tovim. Yet, although this command applies to all the Yomim Tovim, Sukkos possesses a unique distinction. It is not merely a time when we are instructed to be happy. Chazal define the very essence of the Yom Tov as Zeman Simchoseinu, the Time of Our Joy.

Why does its name focus on the joy of the Yom Tov rather than on the sukkos in which Hashem protected us in the midbar, or on the daled minim that occupy such a prominent place in our observance of the Yom Tov? What is it about Sukkos that creates and mandates such an extraordinary degree of happiness that simcha itself becomes the name by which the Yom Tov is identified?

Perhaps the answer begins with something that seems almost paradoxical. On Sukkos, the Yom Tov that is called the Time of Our Joy, we leave our homes.

We step away from the permanent structures that normally provide us with a sense of security and stability and enter a temporary dwelling. We leave behind our solid walls and sturdy roofs, our comfortable bedrooms and dining rooms, and all the physical structures that make us feel that we have established ourselves securely in this world. For seven days, we eat our meals, spend time with our families, and, as much as possible, conduct much of our daily activity in a structure whose very temporary nature is central to its mitzvah.

And perhaps that is precisely where the secret of simcha lies.

One of the greatest impediments to happiness is the mistaken belief that happiness depends upon what we possess and upon the circumstances in which we find ourselves. We imagine that if our house was a little larger, our finances a little more comfortable, our business a little more successful, or our lives a little less complicated, we would finally be able to relax and enjoy what we have. We spend so much of our lives looking toward the next improvement, the next acquisition, or the next hoped-for change that we can easily overlook the blessings already surrounding us.

The sukkah comes to challenge that way of thinking.

For seven days, we deliberately leave the permanent structure that represents the physical security we have worked so hard to establish and place ourselves in a temporary dwelling, beneath a roof that is not even a conventional one. We are reminded that the walls around us were never the ultimate source of our security, that the things we own can provide us with comfort but cannot provide us with the inner sense of peace for which we yearn, and that the difference between a house in which a person is happy and one in which he is miserable has very little to do with the quality of its construction.

A magnificent home without shalom bayis cannot create happiness. A beautifully set table cannot compensate for a lack of warmth among the people gathered around it. A person can surround himself with every physical comfort and still feel empty, while another person can sit at a simple table in a modest home, surrounded by people he loves and with gratitude in his heart, and experience a happiness that no luxury could purchase.

The sukkah strips away the illusion that the structure itself is what makes us secure and comfortable, and it teaches us that we can leave our physical permanence behind and still be happy. We are commanded to be happy precisely there, in that temporary dwelling. Vesomachta bechagecha.

This lesson comes at a particularly significant time of year. We have just emerged from the Yomim Noraim, when we stood before Hashem and confronted the fragility of our existence. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we asked Hashem for life, health, sustenance, and the ability to continue serving Him. We acknowledged how dependent we are upon Him and how little is actually within our control, despite the tremendous effort we invest in creating a sense of security and predictability in our lives.

And then, almost immediately, Hashem gives us the mitzvah of Sukkos and tells us to rejoice.

Hashem gives us a remarkable progression. After the introspection of the Yomim Noraim, after we have stood before Him and asked to be granted another year, after we have examined our lives and contemplated what truly matters and what does not, we are told to leave the security and permanence of our homes, enter the sukkah, gather our families and friends around us, take the daled minim in our hands, and rejoice in the blessings Hashem has given us.

After experiencing Yom Kippur and teshuvah, we are best able to hear the message of the humble sukkah. Now, rather than immediately returning to our routines and comforts, we step outside of them and enter a temporary dwelling, where we look at our lives with fresh eyes, recognize the goodness that is already there, and rejoice in it.

Because one of the greatest sources of unhappiness is not necessarily what we lack, but our preoccupation with what we lack. A person can be surrounded by blessings and yet be unable to enjoy them because his eyes are constantly directed elsewhere. He sees what someone else has, the house someone else lives in, the vacation someone else takes, the success someone else has achieved, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the blessings in his own life become invisible to him. The more we compare, the more our sense of what we have is diminished by what we imagine we should have.

There will always be someone who has more. There will always be another person with a larger house, a greater accomplishment, a more impressive position, a nicer car, or a more seemingly perfect life. If a person looks outward at what others have, he will never have enough. He can spend his entire life surrounded by gifts and still view himself as deprived.

On Sukkos, we step away from the pursuit of more and recognize what we have. Sukkos changes our field of vision. Instead of focusing on the permanent structures that distinguish one person from another, everyone leaves them behind and enters a simple sukkah, where the important things become much clearer. The family sitting around the table matters more than the table, the people sharing the meal matter more than the chairs they are sitting on, and the mitzvos surrounding us become more precious than the physical comforts we have temporarily left behind.

The daled minim reinforce that lesson in another way. We take four minim that are different from one another and bring them together because the Jewish people are not meant to be a collection of individuals, each concerned only with his own accomplishments and possessions. We need one another, and there is a special joy that comes from recognizing that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

The sukkah teaches us to appreciate what Hashem has given us, while the daled minim teach us to appreciate the people with whom He has surrounded us. Both lessons lead us toward the same destination. A person becomes happier when he stops measuring his life according to what he thinks is missing and begins to recognize the abundance that is already present.

There is yet another dimension to the simcha of Sukkos. On Pesach, we celebrate what Hashem did for us when He took us out of Mitzrayim, and on Shavuos, we celebrate the Torah that He gave us at Har Sinai. On Sukkos, we experience the relationship itself. We place ourselves under the protection of Hashem and live in the sukkah, which Chazal describe as tzila demehemnusa, the shade of faith.

We are reminded that the security we imagine comes from our homes, our resources, and our plans was never absolute. We were always dependent upon Hashem, though we don’t always notice it. The temporary nature of the sukkah reminds us that the world itself is temporary and that our security does not come from the walls we construct around ourselves, but from the One Who sustains us within those walls and beyond them.

Recognizing that dependence does not make us fearful. It makes us joyful, because once a person understands that Hashem is holding him, he no longer has to feel that he is responsible for holding his entire world together.

Perhaps that is why Sukkos follows immediately after Yom Kippur. We have just spent the holiest day of the year asking Hashem to forgive us and grant us another year. We have confronted our shortcomings, acknowledged our mistakes, and promised to do better. We stood before the Melech with nothing to hide behind, and then Hashem tells us that the next step is to rejoice.

Build your sukkah. Take your daled minim. Invite guests. Eat and drink. Learn Torah. Sing. Dance. Celebrate that you have been given another year and another opportunity to draw closer to Hashem.

This is not a command to manufacture happiness. Rather, it is an invitation to discover the source of happiness. We do not need to wait until every problem has been solved or every aspiration has been fulfilled before allowing ourselves to appreciate the goodness in our lives.

The world around us constantly tells us the opposite. We are encouraged to look at what we don’t have, to notice what we could buy, to compare ourselves with people who appear to have more, and to believe that the next acquisition or accomplishment will finally give us the satisfaction we seek. Sukkos teaches us to step away from that pursuit and to sit beneath the s’chach with the people and the blessings that are already ours.

When we do that, we can begin to understand the words Zeman Simchoseinu in a deeper way. The Torah is not simply telling us that Sukkos is a time during which we are supposed to smile more. It is teaching us how to become capable of experiencing simcha, namely by recognizing that our lives are gifts, that our families are gifts, that our Torah and mitzvos are gifts, and that the opportunity to stand before Hashem and serve Him is itself an extraordinary reason for gratitude.

And then we understand why Chazal did not define Sukkos by the temporary dwelling in which we live, even though the sukkah is central to the Yom Tov, nor by the daled minim that we hold with such care. They called it Zeman Simchoseinu because after Pesach we were free, after Shavuos we had the Torah, and after Sukkos we have simcha.

In our modern world, people are driven to buy things. Since society teaches that having more things makes people happier, it follows that the act of purchasing things brings happiness. In the language of science and psychology, people experience a dopamine rush from shopping and acquiring new things. And while in earlier times a person had to get dressed, leave the house, and travel to a store to obtain something new, today the process has become almost effortless. From the comfort of home, people can click away and purchase virtually anything they need or want.

People have become so accustomed to the experience of buying that there are now, believe it or not, sites where the products do not even exist. The sites do not actually sell anything. They do something else. They provide the experience of shopping.

Think about what that means. A grown person who seeks happiness goes through the motions of browsing, selecting, and purchasing items, even though nothing is actually being purchased and nothing will arrive at his door. The experience itself has become the source of the pleasure. It is simulated; it is not real. And yet, the desire behind it is very real: the desire to be happy, the desire to buy, to have, to accumulate, because people think that having more will make them happier.

But much of the pleasure of indulgence comes from anticipation. People look forward to having something and imagine how good it will feel when it arrives, and then, once they have it, the excitement begins to fade, and before they know it, their attention turns toward the next thing they want to acquire.

The happiness they imagine they will obtain from having more things - a nicer house, a nicer car, a fancier tie or scarf - is all an illusion. And that is precisely part of the message of the sukkah.

There is a classic Yiddish tune about the sukkah, which celebrates that a Yiddele sitting in his little sukkaleh, bundled up against the elements, can be happier and warmer than the wealthiest man whose butler is throwing logs into his fireplace to warm him. The Yiddele sitting in his rickety sukkaleh feels safer and more secure than the wealthy landowner ensconced behind his iron gates.

The world tells us that the more we have, the happier and more secure we will be. The sukkah teaches us the opposite. It takes away the permanence, the comfort, and the possessions that we imagine are the foundations of happiness and shows us that a person can have very little and still be genuinely someiach when he knows that what he has is from Hashem and that he sits betzila demehemnusa, under His protection.

Happiness does not come from having more. It is a simple message, one we have heard many times. On Sukkos, it is no longer a soundbite or a cute saying to hang on the refrigerator. On Sukkos, we sit in the sukkah and discover that it is true.

May we all merit true simcha on Sukkos and all year round, and may we merit the coming of Moshiach bekarov.

Come Back

There are times when we become so focused on doing the right thing that we fail to notice the opportunity to do something even greater.

On the Rosh Hashanah before her passing, Rebbetzin Shayna Chana Elyashiv was not well and was unable to go to shul to hear the shofar. My friend, Rav Gedalya Sheinen, told me that after davening, he would blow shofar for Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv according to all the different shitos.

That year, when he finished, he asked Rav Elyashiv if he should go to the rebbetzin and blow shofar for her so that she could fulfill the mitzvah.

To his surprise, Rav Elyashiv told him not to.

It was the second day of Rosh Hashanah, he explained, and the obligation to hear shofar on the second day is only miderabbonon. Additionally, women are not obligated to perform the mitzvah, but have accepted it upon themselves. Since blowing for the rebbetzin would involve extra tircha—a burden for Rav Sheinen—it was not necessary and he should go home.

Rav Sheinen left and began walking home.

Then he heard Rav Elyashiv calling after him.

“Kumt tzurik. Come back.”

Rav Elyashiv told him that after telling him to go home, he had thought about it and reconsidered. He said that it was true that the mitzvah of shofar on the second day is only miderabbonon and returning to blow more kolos would be a tircha.

“However, my wife will be so happy to hear the kol shofar,” Rav Elyashiv said. “By blowing for her, you will be doing a chesed and chesed is a mitzvah mide’Oraisa. I can be matriach you for a de’Oraisa.”

What an extraordinary way to look at life.

Rav Elyashiv had initially viewed the situation through the pure lens of halacha and concluded that there was no reason to impose upon Rav Sheinen. But then he thought about his wife. He thought about the happiness those sounds would bring her. Suddenly, what had appeared to be an unnecessary tircha became an opportunity to fulfill a mitzvah de’Oraisa.

The story reminds us that, sometimes, we can become so preoccupied with the mitzvah we are trying to perform that we fail to see the mitzvah standing right in front of us.

We look for lofty opportunities to serve Hashem while overlooking the person beside us who needs a little of our patience, a kind word, a smile, a favor, or simply the knowledge that someone cares about him. We get involved in performing the “big” mitzvos and let mitzvos that we consider minor fall by the wayside.

There is something especially powerful about this message as Rosh Hashanah is upon us. We spent the past weeks of Elul examining ourselves and thinking about what we need to improve. We thought about our davening, our learning, our mitzvos, and our bein adam laMakom.

But the Rambam (Hilchos Teshuvah 7:3) teaches us that doing teshuvah involves more than repenting for improper actions. It also includes doing teshuvah for bad ideas, as well as anger, hatred, jealousy, chasing after money and honor, gluttony, and the like.

When we do teshuvah, we should also be examining ourselves by considering how the people around us feel because we are in their lives.

“Do I make life easier for them or more difficult? Do I notice when someone needs something from me or do I see only the inconvenience it will cause me? Do I recognize the opportunities for chesed that Hashem provides me with every day?”

Rav Elyashiv’s greatness was not merely that he knew the halacha. It was that he understood that beyond the halacha was a person, and beyond the person was an opportunity to do the will of Hashem.

Sometimes, the greatest avodah is hidden in the smallest act of consideration.

And sometimes, before we go rushing down the stairs, we need to stop, turn around, and listen for the voice calling, “Kumt tzurik. Come back.”

Rav Sheinen was already walking down the stairs. The decision had been made. The matter was settled. But Rav Elyashiv stopped him and said, “Kumt tzurik. Come back.” He had reconsidered. He had looked at the situation differently. What a moment earlier had seemed to be an unnecessary tircha had suddenly revealed itself as an opportunity for a greater mitzvah.

There is something almost prophetic about that scene as we stand at the threshold of a new year.

At the time of the technological revolution, during the beginning of the twentieth century, when the world suddenly began exploding with innovative inventions, the Chofetz Chaim wrote in his sefer Sheim Olam that these new inventions serve to strengthen our emunah. Regarding the camera, he noted that it demonstrates that the Mishnah’s admonition that we should always be cognizant of Hashem’s “ayin ro’eh,” an eye that sees, is not merely an allegory. The development of the telephone similarly reinforces the reality of “ozen shoma’as,” an ear that hears.

The Chofetz Chaim taught us to look at the inventions of man and discover in them reminders of the wisdom and truth of the Torah.

If there is a technological invention that seems to symbolize our situation this week, perhaps it is the reset button.

The remarkable thing about a reset button is that it tells us that what happened until now does not necessarily determine what happens next. You can be working on a computer when it freezes, something goes wrong, everything stops working or a process becomes corrupted, and then, with the press of a button, the computer can be shut down and started again, and the problem is gone.

Rosh Hashanah is our Divine reset button.

We look back at the past year and see mistakes, failures, disappointments, and habits that we wish we could undo. We wonder how we can break patterns that have become deeply ingrained. We may feel that because we have been the same person for so long, we are destined to remain that way.

Rosh Hashanah comes and tells us that this is not true.

“Zeh hayom techilas ma’asecha.”

On this day, everything starts over again.

Rosh Hashanah is not merely the commemoration of the first day of creation thousands of years ago. It is an opportunity to experience creation anew, to recognize that Hashem is recreating the world today, and that He is giving each of us the opportunity to renew our own personal circumstances as well.

Rav Yisroel Salanter famously asked why Rosh Hashanah precedes Yom Kippur. Would it not make more sense, he reasoned, for us first to cleanse ourselves through teshuvah and then afterward be judged and celebrate Hashem’s dominion over the universe? Would it not bring greater glory to the King if His subjects, who gather to proclaim His sovereignty, were already purified of their sins and fully devoted to His will?

Perhaps the answer lies in understanding the essence of Rosh Hashanah.

Rosh Hashanah tells us that there is no status quo.

Nothing is guaranteed to continue into the coming year simply because it existed during the previous one. There are no chazakos. We cannot assume that what was will necessarily be.

And that is both frightening and comforting.

It is frightening because we realize that we have no lease on the blessings we enjoyed during the past year. We cannot assume that good health, parnossah, nachas, simcha, peace, or any of the other gifts Hashem granted us will simply continue because they were ours yesterday.

But it is also enormously comforting.

Because if there are no chazakos for the good, there are also no chazakos for the bad.

The person who struggled this past year is not condemned to continue struggling. The person who failed does not have to remain a failure. The person who was distant can become close. The person who was weak can become strong. The person who made the same mistake again and again can choose, with Hashem’s help, to make a different choice this time.

We pour out our hearts on Rosh Hashanah precisely because we believe that nothing has to be the way it was. We daven for a good new year because the future has not yet been written.

“Hayom haras olam.”

Today is the day of creation.

Not only then, when the world was first created, but today. Now. At this very moment.

“Hayom yaamid bamishpot kol yetzurei olamim.”

Today, the forces of creation are once again present, as Hashem judges every one of His creations and determines the course of the coming year.

Rosh Hashanah marks a new beginning for every person.

And that new beginning is itself a source of comfort. It tells us that we are not locked into our present spiritual state. We are not prisoners of our past. We can press the reset button. We can choose a different path. We can become different people.

We can say that Rosh Hashanah comes before Yom Kippur because, before we can undertake the difficult work of teshuvah, we need to know that teshuvah is possible.

Before we can confront our shortcomings, we need to believe that they do not define us, and before we can begin the journey toward becoming whole again, we need to know that we can have a new start.

Remember when we were kids and we would have a race, and if we didn’t get off to a good start, we’d call for a do-over? Rosh Hashanah is that new start. It’s the do-over.

The person we were yesterday does not have to be the person we are tomorrow. What happened last year doesn’t have to happen next year.

When we hear the sounds of the shofar, we hear echoes of the sounds that were sounded at Har Sinai, when Klal Yisroel stood together and was transformed into the nation of Hakadosh Boruch Hu. The shofar at Har Sinai heralded a new beginning. The world had reached the moment toward which it had been moving since creation. Klal Yisroel was about to receive the Torah and enter into its eternal covenant with Hashem.

At that moment, there was only hope and promise.

The shofar was also sounded at Yovel, the year of freedom and renewal. When we hear the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, we can hear within its sound an echo of Yovel, the great declaration of freedom that accompanied the return of the eved to his family and his home, and the return of each person to his ancestral property.

The sounds of the shofar sounded at Yovel proclaimed that the past does not have to imprison the future.

A person who had spent years as a slave could go home and begin again. A family that had lost its ancestral field could reclaim it. The world could be restored to its original order.

We, too, can begin again.

We can receive a fresh start, a new lease on life. We can return to the place where we belong.

This helps us understand the remarkable fusion of simcha and awe that characterizes Rosh Hashanah. It is the Yom Hadin, the awesome Day of Judgment, when every person stands before Hashem, and at the same time, we are commanded to celebrate the day as a Yom Tov.

Why the simcha? How can we be expected to be joyous when the judgment is upon us?

The answer is that the simcha is not despite the judgment. We are joyous because we think about what the judgment makes possible.

We are not simply being judged on the person we were. We are being given the opportunity to become the person we can be.

As far removed from Hashem as we may feel, as much as we may regret what has happened during the past year, and as dark as our situation may sometimes appear, the shofar comes to remind us that the story is not over. It’s just starting. There is a new beginning.

And there is teshuvah, the bridge between the person we have been and the person we can become. Rachmana litzlan, the plane crashed and we were thrown into a stormy sea. Teshuvah is the life vest provided to us, enabling us to hang on to life and return safely to shore.

The shofar calls us to reach for it.

We slip. We make mistakes. We commit aveiros. We fail to perform mitzvos as we should. When the shofar sounds, we look back and see the places where we fell short, the opportunities we missed, and the things we could have done better.

But one of the greatest chassodim that Hakadosh Boruch Hu does for us is that He gives us a way out of the rut.

He gives us Rosh Hashanah.

He gives us the ability to make a new beginning, to start from scratch, to press the reset button on our lives.

To be happy, even if we were sad.

To be upbeat, even if we were down.

To learn well, even if we didn’t last year.

To daven with kavanah, even if our tefillos have become rote.

To become better people, even if we have been disappointed in ourselves.

To scrub ourselves clean from aveiros, from the dirt and silliness in which we allowed ourselves to become entangled.

Rosh Hashanah gives us the ability to press reset on all the components that make up our lives and begin anew.

When we were children, we would sometimes search for the colon—the famous “two dots”—in a Gemara. We would be struggling through a difficult sugya, confronted by a question we could not understand, an argument that seemed beyond us, or a line of Gemara that had left us hopelessly confused. So, we looked ahead to find those two dots, which meant a new sugya and a chance for a new beginning.

Whatever had gone wrong in the previous sugya, we knew that here we could start fresh. Perhaps this sugya would be easier. Perhaps we would follow it better. Perhaps this time we would finally understand.

Rosh Hashanah is the two dots in the shvere sugya of life.

We pick ourselves up, we turn the page, and we begin again.

We are arriving at the end of another year, and some of us are staggering toward the finish line. The past year had its share of difficulties. When we express the annual hope of “tichleh shanah vekileloseha,” there is no shortage of tzaros and challenges to which we refer.

Yet, the Gemara in Rosh Hashanah (16b) teaches that a year that is “rosh,” impoverished, at its beginning will be rich at its close. Rashi explains that this means that Klal Yisroel approaches Rosh Hashanah like poor people, with our hands outstretched, recognizing that we have nothing of our own and that everything depends upon the generosity of Hashem.

Our tefillos are like the pleas of a poor person before a wealthy benefactor. We say in Selichos every morning, “Kedalim ucheroshim dofaknu delosecha.” We say to Hashem, “We stand here as poor people, as paupers, and we knock on Your door and have faith that You will open it and grant us a good year.”

Rav Yitzchok Blazer would say in the name of his rebbi, Rav Yisroel Salanter, that the yesod of Rosh Hashanah is to recognize that we have no guarantees and no chazakos, but we recognize that we are standing before the Source of all blessing.

We are like a poor man who was given an appointment with the most generous baal tzedakah in the world, and we are filled with hope that he will give us what we ask of him.

Rav Eizik Sher expands on this idea.

On Rosh Hashanah, everything in creation and every creature is judged individually. The Mishnah in Rosh Hashanah (1:2) teaches, “Kol bo’ei ha’olam ovrin lefonov kivnei maron.”

Think about what that means. The entire world is standing in judgment. Billions of human beings. Nations and countries. Kingdoms and governments. Each one is being judged. Who will have hunger and who will have plenty. Who will have drought and who will be flooded. Who will experience war and who will experience peace. Who will prosper and who will suffer.

And in the midst of this enormous gathering, there is only one nation that knows the secret, only a tiny percentage of the billions who stand before the Borei Olam who understand what it means to be zoche badin.

Only Am Yisroel knows the secret of standing before the King like an “oni bapesach,” like an impoverished person who knows that he has nothing to rely upon except the rachamim of the One who holds everything in His hands.

Our sense of frailty is our strength. We know that on our own, we are nothing and have nothing. We have no guarantees and no chazakos. But we know that we have Hashem, and when a person comes before the Source of all blessing with that recognition, anything is possible.

Thus, on Rosh Hashanah, the first two days of the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, we do not recite vidui or al cheit. The teshuvah of Rosh Hashanah begins somewhere deeper. It begins with how we think.

Because before we develop a new course of action, we need to develop a new perspective. Before we can change what we do, we have to change how we see ourselves, how we see our lives, and how we see our relationship with Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

The kol shofar awakens us to the realization that we are beginning again. On this day, we don’t look back. We look ahead. We look at everything that we can do right. We do teshuvah on our thought process. We hear the shofar call out to us, saying, “Kumt tzurik. You can do it. You can be great. You can do all the mitzvos properly. You can be a baal middos. You can be a kind and gentle tzaddik who performs the mitzvos perfectly. And you can have a great year.”

On Rosh Hashanah, the person who struggled with his davening can begin to approach tefillah differently. The person whose learning was inconsistent can open a Gemara with renewed determination. The person who has been carrying anger or disappointment can choose to let go, and the person who has become discouraged with himself can lift his head and remember that Hakadosh Boruch Hu has not become discouraged with him.

The call of the shofar is simple, without an elaborate melody or complicated words, because teshuvah begins with a call that comes from somewhere deep within a person and says, “I want to come back. I want to be better. I want to begin again.”

And we are not starting the journey alone. Hakadosh Boruch Hu is right there with us, holding our hand and helping us. We make the first move, but Hashem promises to help us complete the journey, to strengthen us when the road is difficult, and to enable us to accomplish what we could not accomplish on our own.

As we stand at the beginning of another year, whatever our situation is, we should not be intimidated. The shofar calls out to us, “Uru yesheinim mishinaschem.” Don’t fear the future. Awaken from your sleep, from your nightmares and fears. New opportunities, new accomplishments, new nachas, and new growth await you.

We know Who holds the year in His hands, and that knowledge allows us to approach the Yom Hadin not only with awe and trepidation, but also with the simcha that comes from knowing that we are being given another chance.

We will hear Hashem calling each one of us and saying, “Kumt tzurik. Come back. Begin again. It’s a do-over. You can do this. You can win. You can have a winning year.”

May we all be zoche to a great year, filled with yeshuos, refuos, hatzlocha, brocha, and geulah.

Kesivah vachasimah tovah.

Choose Life

What separates man from beast? Well, there are many things that separate man from beast, but one of them is the ability to make choices. We call that bechirah.

An animal is governed by its nature and instincts. When it is hungry, it seeks food. When it is tired, it seeks rest. When it senses danger, it seeks safety. A person, however, can experience an impulse and choose not to act upon it. He can be angry and decide to remain silent. He can be tired and nevertheless get up to daven. He can be tempted to sin and choose to walk away. He can be hurt by another person and decide that he will not allow the hurt to determine how he treats others. The ability to stop, consider, and choose a different course is one of the defining qualities of a human being.

Rabbeinu Yonah writes in Shaarei Teshuvah (3:17) that the loftiest spiritual values we are to strive to attain were imparted to us through mitzvos. He cites as an example the mitzvah in this week’s parsha of choosing good over bad. Every person is given the opportunity to choose what type of life he wants to lead and what he wants to do with his life. The Torah commands us, “Uvocharta bachaim — And you shall choose life.”

The Torah does not merely tell us that we possess the capacity to choose. It instructs us to use that capacity properly. The Torah tells us that when we stand at the crossroads and are confronted with alternatives, we must recognize that the choice is ours and that our choices have consequences. A good life does not simply happen. It is built through decisions, some large and consequential and many so small that we barely notice them at the time.

We tend to think of the important choices in life as the major decisions that require careful thought and planning: whom we will marry, where we will live, where we will send our children, and which path we will take in life. These decisions are certainly important, but there is another category of choices that quietly shapes us every day: how we speak to our spouse when we are tired, how we respond when someone has offended us, whether we use our time productively or allow it to slip away, whether we complain about what we lack or appreciate what we have, and whether we respond to a difficult situation with emunah or with frustration. These choices become the building blocks of our character.

A person becomes who he is through the choices he makes. Each time he chooses patience over anger, he strengthens his capacity for patience. Each time he chooses Torah over distraction, he becomes more attached to Torah. Each time he restrains himself from saying something hurtful, he develops greater control over his speech. Conversely, when a person repeatedly gives in to an impulse or temptation, he is also making a choice, and each time a person gives in to his yeitzer hora, it becomes that much more difficult to do the right thing the next time he has to make a choice.

There is tremendous power in the concept of bechirah. We are not merely choosing what to do in a particular moment. In a very real sense, we are choosing what kind of person we will become.

I met a delightful Yerushalmi Jew who told me about his Hungarian grandfather, a Jew from Toshnad who met the same fate as the overwhelming majority of Hungarian Jewry. He was taken to the concentration camps with his wife and children, and only he survived.

Years later, the grandson asked him, “Of all the awful experiences of the war, which was the worst?”

The grandfather’s answer was unexpected. He said that, for him, the worst moment came after the war had ended, when he had been freed from the camps.

He emerged alone, barely alive, with the people he had loved most in the world gone. Seeking some measure of solace, he made his way back to his hometown of Toshnad, hoping to see the home in which he had once lived with his family. But the Jews of the town were all gone, and a non-Jewish family had assumed ownership of his house.

He walked up to the door, simply wanting to take one final look at the place he had once called home. He had left that house without saying goodbye, never imagining that he would one day return to it alone.

Then he noticed that the family nameplate was still firmly fastened to the door.

Seeing his family’s name on the door gave him the courage to knock. The occupant was kind enough to allow him inside. He entered and looked around at the walls that had absorbed the laughter and songs of his murdered family. Everything seemed just as he remembered it. The dining room table, around which his family had gathered for festive meals and sung zemiros on countless Shabbosos and Yomim Tovim, was still there. Even the leichter on which his wife had lit the candles for so many years remained in its familiar place.

He stood there, overwhelmed by memories, when suddenly the man who had taken possession of the house told him that his time was up.

“Okay, Jew,” he commanded. “Your time is up. Get out.”

The grandfather walked out of the house and stood on the street. Decades later, he told his grandson that he had never felt so degraded and distraught in his entire life. All the pain and heartache he had endured seemed to converge in that one moment. He had survived the war, but now he was standing outside the home that had once belonged to him, looking at a life that no longer existed.

And then, standing there at the gutter, he realized something.

He had a choice.

He could allow the anguish to pull him down and give it all up or he could summon whatever strength remained within him and rise above what had happened to him.

He chose to rise.

He made his way to Yerushalayim, remarried, built a new home, and was blessed with a new family. In time, that family grew to include children and 150 grandchildren.

Think about the magnitude of that choice. He could not change what had happened. He could not bring back his wife and children. He could not restore the Jewish community of Toshnad or reclaim the years that had been stolen from him. None of those things were within his power. But there was one thing he could determine, and that was whether the tragedy would be the end of his story or whether he would pick himself up and start again.

He followed the posuk of “uvocharta bachaim” and chose life.

That decision gave him the strength to move forward. It enabled him to rebuild his life, to establish another Jewish home, and to create a future that would eventually include generations of descendants. The tragedy remained part of his story, but it did not become the entirety of his story.

That is the power of bechirah.

Thankfully, we are not generally confronted with choices remotely resembling the one that lonely survivor had to make. Our challenges are usually much smaller and our decisions far less dramatic. Yet, the principle is the same. We may not always be able to choose what happens to us, but we can choose what we will do with what happens to us.

A person may be disappointed, but he can choose whether to become embittered or to strengthen his emunah. He may experience failure, but he can choose whether to view it as proof that he cannot succeed or as an opportunity to learn and try again. He may encounter a difficult period in his life, but he can choose whether to spend his days asking, “Why me?” or to ask, “What does Hashem want from me now?”

This does not mean that pain is not real or that difficult experiences should be dismissed with simplistic answers. The Toshnad survivor knew pain in a way that few of us can comprehend, yet he refused to surrender his future to his suffering.

The Rambam makes this point especially clear in Hilchos Teshuvah (5), where, in the midst of his discussion of teshuvah, he stops to establish one of the fundamental principles of bechirah: Every person has the ability to choose whether to follow the good path and become a tzaddik or to follow the bad path and become a rosha. Man is unique in creation in possessing this ability to act according to his own will and to determine whether he will be good or bad. Nothing is predetermined. Each person has the ability to decide what he wants to become and how he wants to live his life. As the Rambam writes, a person can be as righteous as Moshe Rabbeinu or as wicked as Yerovom.

This is the choice that Moshe Rabbeinu placed before Klal Yisroel in Parshas Re’eh (Devorim 11:26-28): “Re’eh, see, I am placing before you today two paths, two ways in which you can live your life, es habrocha, the path of blessing, asher tishmeun, if you listen to and observe the Torah, and es haklolah, the path of curse, if you choose not to follow the Torah.”

And this is the choice Moshe presents to the Jewish people in this week’s parsha as well. He told the Jewish people (Devorim 30:15-19), “Re’eh nosati lifonecha es hachaim v’es hatov, v’es hamoves, v’es hora... Hachaim vehamoves nosati lifonecha habrocha v’haklolah uvocharta bachaim lema’an tichye atah v’zarecha, See, I have set before you life and good, and death and evil. I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. And you shall choose life so that you and your children shall live.”

The choice is placed before us. Which path we take is up to us.

The nisayon of bechirah is constantly before us. It is not reserved for the rare dramatic moment when a person is forced to make a life-altering decision. It is present in the ordinary moments of every day: Do we follow the yeitzer tov or do we allow the yeitzer hora to convince us and guide us?

The lonely survivor standing outside his former home in Toshnad could not have known what his choice would eventually produce. He could not have envisioned a new home in Yerushalayim, a new family, children, grandchildren, and 150 descendants. He could only choose what to do with the next moment.

He chose life.

And that is the choice Hashem places before each of us as well.

Uvocharta bachaim. Hashem tells us that we should always choose the option that grants us life.

This past Sunday, the 17^th of Elul, the Rajchenbach family dedicated the new Kollel Zichron Eliyohu building in Chicago, marking yet another milestone in the remarkable growth of the Torah community in that Midwestern bastion of Yiddishkeit. It was a day of celebration, a day on which the fruits of decades of mesirus nefesh and dedication to Torah were made visible in bricks, mortar, and a beautiful new building.

But there was another facet to that dedication that surely would have been on the mind of the patriarch of the Rajchenbach family, the beloved Reb Yankel, had he merited to be there.

The 17^th of Elul is a date that carries a very different memory for the Jewish people. Eighty-seven years ago, in September 1939, Poland was invaded by Nazi Germany, and the inferno that would engulf European Jewry had begun. Within days, the Second World War had spread across Europe, and the destruction of Polish Jewry and, ultimately, the great communities of Eastern Europe was underway. The Jews of Poland, who had built some of the greatest Torah communities the world had ever known, were decimated. Families were torn apart, communities were erased, and an entire world was destroyed. Millions were murdered, many in the concentration camps and ghettos, while those who survived often emerged with little more than their lives. Their homes were gone, their possessions were gone, their families and friends were gone, and the world they had known had disappeared.

Some survivors were so broken that they lost their faith or their connection to Yiddishkeit. Others simply lost the will to live. But there were also those who made a different choice. They chose to live. They chose to cling to Hakadosh Boruch Hu. They chose to rebuild Jewish homes, to raise children, and to recreate, as best they could, the world that had been destroyed.

One of those people was Yitzchok Rajchenbach of Lodz, Poland.

A simple Yid, he lost his wife and children in the war, yet he made the choice to begin again. He married a woman who had lost her husband during the war, and together they settled in Lodz. There they had a son whom they named Yaakov Eliezer.

Eventually, the antisemitism and difficult conditions in postwar Poland became too much and they made another choice: to leave. They eventually settled in Omaha, Nebraska.

Their son Yankel was then eleven years old. He had been sent to public school, but when he became bar mitzvah, his father turned to his only son and told him, in his Poilishe Yiddish, “Du kenst ir nisht bleiben ah Yid. Mir darfen dich shiken in yeshiva. You won’t remain a Yid if you stay here. We have to send you to yeshiva.”

Yitzchok Rajchenbach made his choice. He took his young son to the bus station and put him on a bus for the thirty-four-hour journey to New York City, where the boy would enter yeshiva.

A refugee who had already lost almost everything was making another sacrifice because he understood that what mattered most was that his son have a life of chaim.

That boy grew up to become one of the spiritual fathers of the Chicago Torah community. The city that today boasts a magnificent new Kollel Zichron Eliyohu building owes a portion of its Torah landscape to the choice made by a Polish refugee who understood that if his son was to remain a Yid, he needed to give him a Torah education.

Hitler sought to destroy the Jewish future. Yitzchok Rajchenbach chose to rebuild it.

And so there is something deeply moving about the fact that on the 17^th of Elul, a date forever associated with the beginning of the destruction of the Jewish world of Poland, a new Torah building was being dedicated in Chicago by children and grandchildren of Lodzer Yidden who were mekayeim the posuk of uvocharta bachaim lema’an tichye atah v’zarecha.

Interestingly, my grandfather, Rav Eliezer Levin, the late rov of Detroit, made a similar choice. He told me that when he arrived in Detroit in 1939 to serve as a rov, there were already thirty-three other rabbonim in the city, and some of them were not pleased about the arrival of another rov. “Who needs another rov here?” they wondered, particularly another greener, a newcomer who had recently arrived from Lithuania.

Years later, Rav Levin told me, “Uber fun zei alleh iz gornit gebliben. But there is nothing left of all those rabbonim.”

He was not criticizing them. He was making a point about a difficult decision that he made.

“Those rabbonim did not have the strength to send their sons away to yeshiva,” he explained. “They kept their sons at home. But I sent my only son to yeshiva.”

It was an extraordinarily difficult choice. Rav Levin was a refugee, trying to establish a life and a rabbinic career in a new country. He had only one son, and sending him away was hard. We certainly cannot judge those who made a different calculation under circumstances that were extraordinarily difficult.

But Rav Levin made his choice.

He followed the posuk of “uvocharta bachaim lema’an tichye atah v’zarecha,” and chose life for his son.

And that son was Rav Avrohom Chaim Levin.

Rav Avrohom Chaim went on to found the Telzer Yeshiva in Chicago, which became a pillar of Torah in the city. The yeshiva helped establish the Torah infrastructure and leadership that built the Chicago Torah community and made possible the establishment and expansion of Kollel Zichron Eliyohu.

And so the chain continues.

We often think that our choices affect only ourselves. We make a decision and imagine that its consequences end with us. But that is rarely true. A parent’s choices affect his children. A mechanech’s choices affect his talmidim. A community’s choices affect the generations that follow. One person’s decision to sacrifice for Torah can become the foundation upon which thousands of others eventually build.

Choices lead to life, not only for the person making the choice, but for his children, his grandchildren, his community, and, ultimately, for the entire world that benefits from another generation of Torah.

Hopefully, we will never be confronted with a choice as monumental as the one that stood before that lonely survivor on the streets of Toshnad. Most parents will never face the decision that confronted Yitzchok Rajchenbach when he placed his young son on a bus and sent him thousands of miles away to yeshiva. We will, thankfully, not have to rebuild our lives from the ashes of the Holocaust, nor will we have to make decisions under circumstances in which the future of our Yiddishkeit seems to hang in the balance.

But we should not conclude that bechirah is less relevant to us. Our lives are filled with choices, but they are simpler. In every instance, in every choice, the Torah tells us, “Uvocharta bachaim.” Choose life. Choose the right path, the path of goodness.

A person wakes up in the morning and is faced with a choice about how he will begin his day. He can approach it with gratitude or with complaints, with zerizus or with sluggishness. During the day, he will encounter people who test his patience and situations that do not proceed as he would like. He will have opportunities to speak and opportunities to remain silent, opportunities to be helpful and opportunities to walk away, opportunities to use his time well and opportunities to allow it to disappear. He will encounter temptations that nobody else sees and nisyonos that perhaps nobody will ever know about. Each time, he is being asked, in one form or another, to choose.

And because these choices are so ordinary, we sometimes fail to appreciate their significance. But greatness is built when a person chooses what is right over what is convenient, what is meaningful over what is immediately pleasurable, and what will bring him closer to Hashem over what merely feels good for the moment.

The decision to spend another few minutes learning instead of reaching for the phone may not seem like a historic event. Choosing not to answer an insult may not make the newspapers. Not allowing our taavos to control us, choosing to help a poor Yid from Eretz Yisroel or from around the corner — all these things mean choosing life.

Hashem does not want us to drift through life. He wants us to recognize that we have been given the ability to direct ourselves. We are not simply products of our circumstances, our personalities, or our inclinations. We possess the ability to choose what we will do with them.

There is a path called chaim, and we possess the ability to choose that path.

The world around us constantly encourages us to make choices based on what is easiest, fastest, and most enjoyable. The Torah asks us to consider something deeper: What is true? What is right? What does Hashem want from me? What kind of person will this decision make me? Is this the path of brocha or the path of klolah? Will this action bring me closer to being like Moshe or like Yerovom?

The most encouraging aspect of bechirah is that we are never trapped by yesterday’s choices. As long as we are alive, we can choose again. That is the gift of teshuvah.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu, in His compassion, has provided us with teshuvah, giving us the opportunity to reverse course and begin again. We are not condemned to remain where our previous choices have brought us. We can undo our mistakes and return to where we belong.

On Rosh Hashanah, we are judged according to the choices we made throughout the past. Yet, out of His deep and enduring love for us, Hashem gives us the opportunity to change that judgment.

“Lo nifleis hee mimcha velo rechokah hee” (Devorim 30:11). In this week’s parsha, the Torah tells us that teshuvah is within everyone’s reach. When we recognize that we have made bad choices and wish to rectify them, Hashem reaches out to us. He invites us to come closer and helps us repair what has been damaged.

Whether we earn the good life we all seek is ultimately up to us. It requires us to recognize the truth contained in the words of the pesukim, in the teachings of Chazal, in the words of the Rambam, and in the mussar seforim we should be reviewing during these days leading up to the Yomim Noraim.

The more we align our lives with the path He has laid out for us, the more we merit the brachos and goodness for which we yearn.

Let us all use the gift of bechirah wisely and, in the instances when we haven’t, merit to do teshuvah, so that together with all of Klal Yisroel, we will be inscribed and sealed for a kesivah vachasimah tovah, a year of brocha, yeshuah, refuah, parnossah, nachas, and the coming of Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov.