Mazal Tov to Netanel and Chaya Sury Jarashow on your wedding!

May you be zoche to build a beautiful בית נאמן בישראל, filled with Torah, simcha, bracha, and endless nachas, and may you share many happy and healthy years together.

Attached is a likut on the parsha, Selichos, and the upcoming Yamim Noraim.

Good Shabbos!

Dedicated by the Zelman family (Wesley Hills, NY)

Parshas Ki Savo 5786

As we approach Selichos this Motzaei Shabbos, I find myself thinking more seriously about what Elul is asking of us.

We speak so much about teshuvah, cleansing, renewal, and coming closer to Hashem. But sometimes, instead of feeling inspired, we feel the distance. We think about the year that passed, the ways we fell short, the opportunities we missed, and how far we may feel from the person we want to be.

I’m not writing this from a place of judgment. We’re all here for the same reason: to grow, to become better, and to become more uplifted. But we also have to acknowledge that we’re human, and being human means that we struggle.

THE DISTANCE WE FEEL

Perhaps right before picking up this publication, you were endlessly scrolling. Maybe you looked somewhere you shouldn’t have, spoke lashon hara, went somewhere you didn’t belong, or simply got caught up in a long, busy summer and suddenly realized that we’re already halfway through Elul.

And a thought can creep in:

Is there really a place for me here?

If looking at today can make us uncomfortable, looking back at an entire year can be frightening. Where were we? What were we doing? How many times did we know better and still fall short?

None of this means settling for mediocrity. We’re not saying, “It’s okay, this is just who I am,” or “I’ll try again next year.” Quite the opposite. We are here because we believe we can grow. We are meant to keep climbing toward greatness and shleimus.

But perhaps part of that climb is recognizing that we will never become perfect.

Even those who dedicate their lives to Torah, avodah, and mitzvos know the feeling of falling short. Every person, on his own level, has a distance between who he is and who he knows he could be. Our avodah isn’t to pretend that distance doesn’t exist. Our avodah is to keep moving despite it.

And that’s why this message isn’t only for someone who feels far away. In a sense, it’s for everyone.

Because beneath the mistakes, beneath the failures, and beneath all the distance we may feel, there remains something incredibly holy inside a Yid.

Perhaps, in that sense, there is a tzaddik inside every one of us.

A LIFE OF REBUILDING

This week, on 20 Elul, marks the yahrtzeit of a Torah giant whose life itself can serve as a mussar sefer, Rav Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman zt”l, the Ponovezher Rav (1886–1969).

Before the Holocaust, he served as Rav and Rosh Yeshiva in Ponevezh, Lithuania. The Holocaust destroyed his community and claimed most of his family and talmidim. Yet after reaching Eretz Yisrael, he dedicated himself to rebuilding the Torah world that had been lost. He established the famed Ponevezh Yeshiva in Bnei Brak, along with numerous other Torah and chesed institutions.

There is so much we can learn from his Torah, his bitachon, his strength of character, and his incredible ability to rebuild after unimaginable destruction.

But there is one story in particular, related in the name of Rabbi Berel Wein, that struck me as especially powerful as we approach the Yamim Noraim.

Beneath all the distance we may sometimes feel lies a truth we can easily forget: A Yid remains a Yid. Our inner kedushah has not disappeared. Hashem is waiting for us to return.

And perhaps believing that is where teshuvah begins.

WE ARE STILL HERE

While on a fundraising trip, the Ponovezher Rav arrived in Rome late one cold, miserable night together with his companion, Dr. Moshe Rothschild. After the long journey, Dr. Rothschild was looking forward to reaching the hotel and having something warm to drink.

But the Ponovezher Rav had somewhere else he needed to go first: the Arch of Titus.

The Arch had been erected by the Romans to celebrate their victory over Yerushalayim and the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. Carved into its stone is the famous image of Roman soldiers triumphantly carrying away the Menorah and other sacred vessels. For nearly two thousand years, it stood as a monument to Rome’s victory and the Jewish people’s defeat.

The Ponovezher Rav insisted that they go immediately. He stepped out of the car into the freezing rain and stood silently before the Arch.

After staring at it for some time, he straightened his kapota and hat and cried out toward Titus:

“You drove our people from our land and returned to Rome as the ruler of the most powerful empire on earth. You believed the Jewish people would never return. But look now. Where are you? Where is the mighty Roman Empire? And where are the Jewish people?”

Then the Ponovezher Rav called out:

“Mir zenen noch do... Avu bist du?”

“We are still here. Where are you?”

There are times when it looks like the story is over. A failure can look final. A tragedy can feel like the end. An enemy can appear to have won.

But sometimes you need to wait before deciding who really won.

Rome built a monument celebrating the defeat of the Jewish people. Nearly two thousand years later, a Jew who had himself lost almost everything in the Holocaust stood beneath that very monument while traveling the world to rebuild Torah.

Titus celebrated too early.

(Source: Rabbi Berel Wein, as related by Rabbi Yehuda Oppenheimer,
“A Visit to the Arch of Titus,” Israel National News, January 2, 2017.)

THE STORY IS NOT OVER

There is something almost haunting in those words: “Mir zenen noch do... Avu bist du? We are still here. Where are you?”

Because they speak not only to Titus. They speak to every force that ever convinced a Yid that it had defeated him.

Every fall, every failure, every year that didn’t go as planned can begin to feel permanent. And then comes Elul and whispers the simplest truth:

You are still here.

The neshamah is still here. The desire to return is still here. Hashem is still waiting. As long as we can say mir zenen noch do, the story is not over.

We are all works in progress. We fall. We fail. We do things that are painfully inconsistent with the people we know we are capable of becoming.

And then comes the noise.

You’re a fake.

Who are you fooling?

After everything you’ve done, you think you belong here?

Your little kabalah? Your few extra minutes of learning? Your attempt to daven better now? It’s worthless.

The noise can be deafening.

THE QUIETER TRUTH

But beneath all that noise is a quieter truth. The kol demamah dakah of Elul.

It is the quiet voice of teshuvah reminding us that our failures are real, but they are not our identity. Beneath everything remains a neshamah that is intrinsically holy, connected to Hashem, and capable of returning.

We don’t dismiss our aveiros. We don’t excuse mediocrity. Teshuvah demands that we confront what we’ve done precisely because we believe so deeply in who we really are.

And perhaps this Elul, we can stand before that voice trying to convince us otherwise and answer it with the words of the Ponovezher Rav.

Throughout history, the names have changed. Titus. Haman. Pharaoh. Hitler. Again and again, the message was the same:

You’re finished. I’ve won.

And sometimes, inside ourselves, we hear an echo of that same message.

But the answer is still:

I am here.

My neshamah is still here. My relationship with Hashem is still here. My desire to become better is still here. Hashem still wants me, still awaits my teshuvah, and has given me another Elul because my story is very much still being written.

MIR ZENEN NOCH DO

So this year, perhaps we can look that voice directly in the eye and say:

You don’t get to tell me who I am.

I know what is real. And I know what is noise.

Mir zenen noch do.

I am still here.

With Hashem. With Elul. With my Selichos. With the opportunity to renew, to reclaim my identity, and to keep writing my story.

WHY DO WE SING?

As we go into Shabbos, it’s worth thinking about something we probably take for granted: Why do we sing so much on Shabbos?

We add extra praises and piyutim throughout davening. We sit and sing zemiros at every seudah. There is an entire concept of oneg Shabbos. One of the defining features of Shabbos is song.

Why are singing, zemiros, and oneg such essential parts of the holiest day of the week?

A MUTUAL CHOOSING

There is a remarkable answer found in a pasuk in this week’s parsha (Devarim 26:17–18):

״אֶת ה׳ הֶאֱמַרְתָּ הַיּוֹם לִהְיוֹת לְךָ לֵאלֹקים... וַה׳ הֶאֱמִירְךָ הַיּוֹם לִהְיוֹת לוֹ לְעַם סְגֻלָּה״

Today you have declared Hashem to be your God...and Hashem has declared you today to be His treasured nation.

The pasuk describes the extraordinary two-way relationship that exists between us and our Creator.

את ה׳ האמרת היום. We choose Hashem.

וה׳ האמירך היום. Hashem chooses us and declares us to be His עם סגולה, His treasured nation.

The Mishchas Shemen quotes the Ohr Zarua, who points out something astounding:

האמרת היום has the same gematria as שבת.

In other words, this pasuk gives us a window into what Shabbos truly represents. Shabbos is the day when this mutual choosing between Hashem and Klal Yisrael comes to the forefront.

We turn to Hashem and say, את ה׳ האמרת היום.

And Hashem turns to us and says, וה׳ האמירך היום להיות לו לעם סגולה.

And now we can understand why Shabbos is filled with song.

The Malachei Hashareis stand before Hashem in constant praise. They are completely spiritual. Their service is pure, their song unburdened by the distractions and failures of human life.

Yet the Ohr Zarua teaches something astounding: On Shabbos, the songs and praises of Klal Yisrael are more beloved to Hashem than the song of the Malachei Hashareis.

And perhaps that is precisely the point.

The very imperfection we think weakens our song is what makes it uniquely ours.

THE SONG OF THE STRUGGLE

On Hashem’s day, the holiest day of the week, with all the perfect praise of the heavens before Him, Hashem desires the song of basar v’dam. Mortal human beings whose voices carry the ups and downs, the failures, the struggles, and all the twists and turns of life.

A Yid may arrive at Shabbos after a difficult week. His davening may not have been perfect. His mind may wander during zemiros. His voice certainly cannot compete with that of the Malachim.

But that misses the point entirely.

Hashem does not cherish our song because it is more perfect.

He cherishes us.

He wants our song.

THE SONG HASHEM WANTS

And perhaps that is what we should remember as we enter Shabbos.

We don’t have to leave the struggles of the week behind in order to sing. We bring them with us. The disappointments, the mistakes, the battles fought quietly, the times we fell, and the times we got back up.

They are all part of the voice that sings.

The Malachim can offer Hashem perfection.

Only we can offer Him a song that comes from the struggle.

And on Shabbos, Hashem tells us that this is the song He wants to hear.

WHO WE STILL ARE

We can look at our struggles and see them as evidence of how far we are from Hashem.

Shabbos tells us otherwise.

וה׳ האמירך היום להיות לו לעם סגולה.

Hashem knows exactly who we are. He knows the week we just lived, the battles we won, and the ones we lost. And still, on His holiest day, surrounded by the perfect song of the Malachim, He wants our voice.

And it’s not just about Shabbos.

Shabbos is the מקור הברכה, the source of blessing, and our compass. Its message should shape how we see ourselves throughout our lives.

THE FAILURES DON’T DEFINE US

Our struggles and failures are real. When we feel lost, wandering, or detached, those feelings are real too.

But they do not define our value or change our essence.

We remain His עם סגולה, even while we are still working, struggling, falling, and trying again.

As we go deeper into cleansing ourselves and returning to the Eibeshter, beginning with Selichos, don’t forget the words of the Ponovezher Rav:

“Mir zenen noch do... Avu bist du?”

“We are still here. Where are you?”

After everything, we are still Hashem’s עם סגולה. Still singing His zemiros. Still saying Selichos. Still trying to come closer.

The failures may make a lot of noise, but they never have and never will take away who we are.

Laugh at the Satan.

The joke is on him.

Mir zenen noch do.

We are still here. •