He could have unraveled. Instead, he went home and said, “There’s a time for everything.” And he believed it.

Where does that kind of clarity come from? How does someone face loss without losing himself?

Parshas Terumah and the month of Adar reveal a hidden yesod: what you possess is far greater than you think. When you recognize the value of what’s already in your hands, even darkness starts to look different.

Terumah: The Biggest Mistake - Treating Silver Like Metal

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Dedicated by the Felder Family (Toms River, NJ)

Dedicated by The Fireworker Family (Nanuet, NY)
l'illui nishmas Shmuel Aryeh ben Dovid

Dedicated by The Roberts Family (Lakewood, NJ)
l'illui nishmas Chana bas Harav Shmuel z"l

Parshas Terumah 5786

This week, I spoke with someone who is not a Yid, but who left a deep impression on me. He is accomplished, intelligent, and unusually grounded. Over the years, he has built companies, served as CEO, COO, and CFO, led massive operations, and today is also a professor. From the outside, his life looked like uninterrupted success.

At one point, he paused and said, “I want to be honest. Nothing is ever as picture-perfect as it seems.” A few years ago, he was thriving at a company. Sales were soaring, expectations were being exceeded, and he was leading a large team with constant praise. June came, contract renewal time, and there was no doubt he would be staying.

But the renewal date passed. Then another day. Finally, he called the CEO to ask what was going on. The response was simple: “You’ve done great with us. But we’re not renewing.”

He told me the pain was immediate. Rejection. Agony. He went home and told his wife. And then, instead of anger or resentment, he said something that stunned me.

He told his wife, “I know there is a G-d. I know Ecclesiastes. I know לכל זמן ועת – There’s a time and place for everything. Ups and downs.”

They packed up their RV and took a weeklong trip in July to Lake Patoka with their family. He told me it was one of the most peaceful and meaningful vacations they had ever experienced.

I was stunned. I asked him directly, “You’re not Jewish. You didn’t grow up with emunah or bitachon. Where did that calm come from? That certainty?”

And he again quoted the pasuk: לכל זמן ועת. There is a time and a place for everything. G-d has a plan. He cares about me.

Then he quoted Dovid HaMelech in Tehillim:

גם כי אלך בגיא צלמות לא אירא רע כי אתה עמדי.

Even when you walk through darkness, don’t panic. Because G-d is with me.

It was a real moment of truth. A real person, with real, raw faith.

And it hit me hard.

If this person, living in the Midwest, not a Yid, can face rejection without collapsing, can transform pain into faith, and choose family over despair, what does that say to us?

We sit together, we learn the sefarim of emunah and bitachon, we strengthen each other as Jews. But hearing this clarity from someone outside our world forced me to reflect deeply. If someone without Torah can live with such perspective, then certainly we must train ourselves to do so. We must surround ourselves with Torah, immerse ourselves in it, and constantly remind ourselves Who is truly running the show.

When things don’t go our way, the correct response is recognition. There is a higher power. There are ups and downs. This is the course of life. If it could be better, it would be better. And even when I am afraid, even when I feel panic in the dark alleys of life, Hashem is holding me tighter than ever. The greener pastures will come.

THE MONTH OF ADAR

And this brings us into חודש אדר.

Adar is the month of recognition. Hashem is not openly revealed. He is נסתר, hidden. In the Megillah, His Name does not appear even once, and yet the greatest miracles unfold. So too in our lives. Often specifically when we don’t see the Divine Hand, when we feel anxious and uncertain, that is precisely when we must strengthen ourselves and remember that Hashem not only cares about us, but loves each of us personally, as if we were an only child.

And this leads us directly into this week’s parshah, which begins:

דבר אל־בני ישראל ויקחו לי תרומה מאת כל איש אשר ידבנו לבו תקחו את־תרומתי.

Speak to the children of Israel, and they shall take for Me a gift.

The Midrash comments that this refers not only to material gifts, but to Torah itself, based on the pasuk:

כי לקח טוב נתתי לכם, תורתי אל תעזבו.

The Midrash then makes a curious comparison. When someone acquires an object, sometimes it contains gold but no silver, or silver but no gold. But the Torah, Hashem says, contains both gold and silver.

Rav Gedalya Schorr asks a penetrating question. Why does the Midrash frame Torah as an acquisition? Why speak in the technical language of commerce? Why not simply say that Torah is precious?

He explains with a halachic case.

TIN OR SILVER?

There was once a man who acquired a sheet of tin roofing. Later, a neighbor noticed discoloration and discovered that beneath the tin was a layer of pure silver. The question arose: who owns the silver? The original seller or the current owner?

Rabbi Eliezer ben Yoel Halevi ruled that the current owner keeps it. Ownership can only be transferred with awareness. Since the seller never knew the silver existed, he could not have sold it. Once it was handed over, it was too late.

This, says Rav Gedalya Schorr, is the yesod of the Midrash.

An acquisition only truly exists when a person knows what he possesses. If someone owns silver but thinks it is simple metal, he will treat it casually, and once it is gone, it is gone.

The same is true with Torah.

If a person does not recognize its depth, its value, and the greatness contained within it, then his acquisition is deficient. Torah is כי הם חיינו. It is the cherished possession of the Creator, the blueprint of creation, and the lifeline of a Yid. To acquire Torah means to recognize what is truly in our hands.

Once that yesod is clear, the avodah becomes practical.

A Yid must become aware of what he possesses. Every moment of Torah and mitzvos is about building awareness, developing erech, and deepening our appreciation until Torah becomes real to us.

The more we learn, refine our middos, and strengthen our bitachon, the more we begin to see the tapestry of Hashem’s wisdom. Torah does not only reward us. It transforms us. It changes our very מהות. As the Kuzari teaches, a Yid becomes a different creation.

And then life itself changes.

When a person lives with that awareness, he no longer sees people as the source. Even the rejection, even the blow, even the CEO saying no, is not random. He sees the One behind the curtain. That is Purim. That is הסתר פנים.

The more Torah becomes real, the more we realize that what we possess is not merely wisdom or religion, but the Ribbono Shel Olam Himself.

Before you sell something, make sure you know what is inside. Don’t treat silver like metal.

The same is true with our relationship with Hashem. Time is short. Don’t waste it. Take opportunities. Enhance them. Enrich them. Make them real.

Then what once felt like an unreachable madreigah becomes attainable. A person can take a blow, experience rejection, and still say: Hashem is with me.

If a non-Jew can live with that clarity, קל וחומר us, who were given Torah, emunah, and the ability to recognize the Hand behind every moment of life, even when we don’t see it.

The greatest tragedy is not losing the silver. The greatest tragedy is never realizing it was silver in the first place.

The avodah of Adar, of Parshas Terumah, and of life itself is to see the hidden worth beneath the surface, and to remember that what we hold is the greatest acquisition possible: the Ribbono Shel Olam Himself. •

Because Torah wasn’t given to angels. It was given to people in the middle of the mess.

Parshas Shekalim and Mishpatim reveal a quiet, unsettling truth: the struggle isn’t a detour. It’s the point.

Mishpatim: G-d Knows Your Struggles

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Dedicated by Yehuda & Ricki Weiss (Jackson, NJ)
l’ilui nishmas Yisroel Dov ben Yehuda Tzvi

Dedicated by CB & Eithan Pfeiffer (Wesley Hills, NY)
in honor of the bris of their grandson

Parshas Mishpatim 5786

The Maharal asks a fundamental question regarding last week’s parshah. We had just received the Torah at Har Sinai, standing at the highest possible spiritual level. The revelation was sublime, with thunder, lightning, and the Kisei HaKavod, a moment of ultimate holiness.

So why, immediately afterward, does the Torah begin Parshas Mishpatim with laws of damages, theft, and slavery? Why move from such transcendence directly into the most practical and challenging areas of human life?

To answer this, we turn to the Gemara in Shabbos 88b. When Moshe ascended to receive the Torah, the malachim protested. Such a precious treasure, they argued, belonged in Heaven. Hashem told Moshe to respond. Afraid, Moshe was instructed to grasp the Kisei HaKavod.

Moshe explained that the Torah speaks to human struggle: slavery, work, jealousy, Shabbos, honoring parents, and the yetzer hara. Since the Torah addresses earthly challenges, it was given to human beings, not angels. The malachim conceded.

THE DEBATE IN HEAVEN

The Maharal asks: Why the Kisei HaKavod? What was so significant about it? What changed when Moshe grasped it? He further asks: When Moshe Rabbeinu answered the malachim, he argued that the Torah speaks to human struggle. He asked them, “Do you have parents? Do you experience jealousy? Do you work? Do you have a yetzer hara? Do you struggle with murder, theft, or avodah zarah?” The angels had no answer and conceded. Why did they concede so completely? True, the angels do not have physical desires to kill or serve idols. But could they not have argued on a more refined level? Even if they do not commit gross physical aveiros, perhaps there is some subtle spiritual parallel, some trace of jealousy or deviation from pure unity, that exists even in the upper worlds. Why, then, did they not respond on that level? Why was this Moshe’s decisive answer?

THE IMAGE ENGRAVED ON THE THRONE

The Maharal explains that this was a purely spiritual debate. The malachim claimed the Torah had no place in the realm of basar v’dam. By instructing Moshe to grasp the Kisei HaKavod, Hashem revealed a profound truth: the image of man is engraved upon the Heavenly throne itself.

Even in Shamayim, there is recognition of the human being as he truly is — flesh and blood, living with struggle and choice.

A malach has no yetzer hara and no internal conflict. Its holiness is inherent. A human being, however, is a fusion of body and soul. His greatness lies not in automatic purity, but in choosing good despite struggle. That potential elevates him beyond a malach.

This is why Moshe grasped the Kisei HaKavod — to demonstrate that the Torah belongs in a world where struggle exists.

HOLINESS THAT IS EARNED

Once Moshe revealed this distinction, the malachim understood. Their holiness flows naturally from their essence. A human being’s holiness is earned — through effort, pressure, temptation, and perseverance.

Even if angels could identify some abstract spiritual parallel to sin, it would not change the essence of the matter. The Torah was not designed for beings whose holiness is automatic. It was given for beings whose holiness must be earned.

With this understanding, we return to our question: Why does the Torah, immediately after Matan Torah, move into the halachos of eved Ivri, nezikin, theft, and capital cases?

THE TORAH FOR REAL LIFE

Because the Torah was given to human beings.

Immediately after the revelation at Har Sinai, the Torah turns to slavery, financial disputes, responsibility, and failure. It addresses parnasah pressures, jealousy, negligence, and human weakness.

Hashem is saying: I know the world you live in. I know it is filled with nisyonos, strain, temptation, and setbacks. Imo anochi b’tzarah — I am with him in his distress.

The Torah is not detached from reality. It was tailor-made for it. Not for malachim in a realm of flawless light, but for human beings who rise precisely because they struggle.

And even there, especially there, we remain a Mamleches Kohanim and a goy kadosh.

SHABBOS SHEKALIM AND REAL CHANGE

In the Gemara, the word שקל is understood as “to take.” The Chiddushei HaRim explains that Shabbos Shekalim is a zeman mesugal for a person to take himself in both hands.

It is a time for real change, a time for a person to take hold of himself and become different.

Rav Meilech Biederman relates: Reb Mordechai, a travel agent who travels often, once had enough points to upgrade to first class by adding one hundred shekels. Curious to experience it, he decided to go for it.

Although he was not wealthy, during the flight he felt like a millionaire. His seat was wide and comfortable, and he kept adjusting the buttons to find the perfect position. He enjoyed the special treatment that began already at the airport, where he bypassed the regular lines and was assisted by a dedicated agent for first-class travelers.

Meanwhile, a Yid flying economy slipped into the first-class section and looked around. Upon seeing Reb Mordechai, he remarked, “Oh, it’s just that schlepper.”

At that moment, all the air went out of him. The feeling of wealth disappeared instantly. He realized he had only been playing the part. Someone who knew him saw the reality.

He later reflected that it is not enough to feel wealthy or to act wealthy. If you want to feel rich, the reality has to be real. Otherwise, the illusion cannot last, and the truth will eventually show who you really are.

Shabbos Shekalim is a time to take ourselves in hand, to do teshuvah and truly improve. If a person makes only superficial changes while remaining the same inside, he remains the same schlepper. Real growth requires real change. Now is the time.

The juxtaposition of Shabbos Shekalim and Mishpatim is not coincidental. At this zeman mesugal, when we face life’s nisyonos, moments that feel lonely, dark, or uncertain, we are reminded of who we are and what we have. We are Hashem’s beloved nation. We received the Torah from the malachim. It was not for them; it was for us, for our mortal struggles, trials, and challenges.

Hashem is fully aware of our struggles. The Torah was given for the real world, for human beings who face temptation, pressure, mistakes, and conflict. Hashem sees our struggles, understands our nisyonos, and accompanies us through them.

Even in the midst of difficulty, we can rise, live with kedushah, and remain a Mamleches Kohanim and a goy kadosh, because Hashem is fully aware of man’s struggles. After all, there is an image of man engraved on His Kisei HaKavod. •

A powerful reminder to judge others favorably, because we rarely know the full story.

Yisro: The Stop You Thought You Missed

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Dedicated by Mr. & Mrs. Mottie Schwartz (Monsey, NY) in honor of the marriage of Chanala and Gershon

Dedicated by Zechariah Y. Oluwabankole & Levine Babington-Johnson (Minneapolis, MN) l’zechus the redemption of all of Am Yisrael

Dedicated by Zichron Noach Tzvi Foundation

Parshas Yisro 5786

Living as a Yid is living with bitachon, drawing chizzuk from wherever we can in order to hold on to strength.

I recently read a ma’aseh in Sichos Yisroel from Rav Yisroel Brog. Besides being the Brisker Rav, a tzaddik and baal bitachon, he carried the heavy burden of supporting the Brisk Yeshiva. A very wealthy man once offered to take full financial responsibility for the yeshiva for the rest of his life.

The Brisker Rav refused. He explained that if he accepted the money, he would lose his constant need and connection to HaKadosh Baruch Hu. It wasn’t kedai. And he didn’t just say it. He actually turned down money that would have removed all worry and given him complete menuchas hanefesh. He didn’t want a life in which he no longer needed Hashem. The Brisker Rav didn’t just believe in bitachon, he needed Hashem. And he chose that need deliberately.

This story teaches us not by words but by action that bitachon isn’t something we turn to only when we’re stuck. It isn’t bidieved. It’s lechatchila. It’s כי הם חיינו, it is life itself. If we aren’t living in a perpetual state of needing Hashem, then what is life? What is it worth?

The more we say “kochi v’otzem yadi,” Hashem says, “Okay, let’s see what you can do.” That tug-of-war is constant, and our avodah is to choose bitachon over our own strength.

It’s not me. It’s all the Eibeshter. On that note:

PREREQUISITES TO TORAH

In this week’s parshah we come to Matan Torah. We’re not just repeating the story of Kabbalas HaTorah. As the sefarim hakedoshim teach, we relive it. In 2026, we are receiving it new, right now.

The Medrash famously relates, במדבר רבה א:ז:

נתנה תורה בשלשה דברים: באש ובמים ובמדבר.

The Torah was given with three things: with fire, with water, and in the desert.

This wasn’t incidental. Each one is a prerequisite to becoming a true mekabel Torah.

Rav Meir Shapiro explains that these three aspects, three key ingredients, represent three prerequisites of ironclad commitment, emunah and bitachon, to be a receptacle vessel of the Torah.

Eish represents mesiras nefesh of the individual. Like Avraham Avinu entering the kivshan ha’eish, it represents personal sacrifice, inner fire, and moments where a person gives everything for Hashem.

Mayim is mesiras nefesh of the klal. At Krias Yam Suf, klal Yisrael stepped forward together in a one-time, national act of courage and self-sacrifice.

But then comes Midbar, forty years of uncertainty. This wasn’t the individual test of Avraham, and it wasn’t the one-time demonstration of the entire nation at Krias Yam Suf. This was about living Torah as a constant, ongoing reality. Every day brought new questions, new challenges, and new unknowns.

Midbar teaches us that Torah is only fully received when commitment is long-term and all-encompassing. It’s not enough to have one fiery moment of mesiras nefesh, and it’s not enough for the nation to unite once in courage. True Torah requires perpetual emunah and bitachon, a trust in Hashem that persists even when nothing is certain. It’s about showing up day after day, in the unknown, and continuing with courage, faith, and dedication.

This is the deepest lesson of Matan Torah: Torah is not just a story to retell, a moment to celebrate, or a historical event. Torah is our life, lived in trust of Hashem, even in the Midbar, even in the dark, uncertain moments. Only then can we become a true mekabel Torah.

TYPES OF NISYONOS

Rav Nachum Binder offers another pshat on the three aspects of Torah, fire, water, and desert, as three types of nisyonos.

Eish is the battle of persecution and external attack: war, destruction, tragedies like the Holocaust or October 7th. These are the extreme tests, when the world is hostile and aflame against us. It can feel overwhelming, but the more Torah we have, the more fuel we are given to overcome. Torah sustains us; it is what allows us to endure. אין לנו שיור רק התורה הזאת.

Mayim corresponds to the nisayon of kedushah, the pull of desire and distraction that can pull a person away from Hashem. When one falls or succumbs, the yetzer hara whispers, “You don’t belong here; you are impure. You don’t belong learning Hashem’s Torah. Go back to where you belong.”

Midbar, the last and arguably most challenging nisayon, is the nisayon of uncertainty and anxiety: the relentless sfeikos, the question marks of life, parnassah, shalom bayis, children, refuah, shidduchim. Not knowing what’s next, how things will unfold, or when challenges will end. That is the constant Midbar.

Hashem gave the Torah b’eish, b’mayim, u’vamidbar, not by chance. These are the three fronts of battle. Until we can face the yetzer hara on all three – attacks, desire, and uncertainty – we cannot fully receive Torah.

When we tap into Lechteich, when we truly follow and accept the Torah now, in 2026, we live with bitachon even in the Midbar. We keep learning, doing chesed, and keeping mitzvos, even amid uncertainty and lost battles.

As followers, we keep going. When we fall, we get up, dust ourselves off, and continue fighting the מלחמתה של תורה.

That is how a person becomes a true mekabel Torah, and how Torah continues to guide and sustain us, generation after generation.

A JEW IS NEVER LOST

Rav Mordechai (“Reb Mottel”) Pogromansky, whose yahrzeit is coming up on the 25th of Shevat, was a leading Lithuanian Torah scholar.

It was a Friday morning when Rav Mordechai Pogramansky was traveling by train to a certain town where he planned to spend Shabbos. A man sat down next to him, and they began talking. The man was a mohel and shochet, and also a talmid chochom, and he seized the opportunity to engage Rav Mordechai in learning.

They became so absorbed in their conversation that neither noticed the train passing their stop. Only later did the mohel look out the window and realize they were far beyond their intended destination. By then, it was too late. There was no train back before Shabbos.

He turned to Rav Pogramansky in distress. “Where will we stay for Shabbos?” he asked. “Where will we get wine for Kiddush, challos for lechem mishnah, and food lekavod Shabbos?”

Rav Mordechai calmly consoled him. “A Jew is never lost,” he said. “When a Jew finds himself in a certain place, it is with hashgacha pratis. Hashem wants him there.”

At the next stop, they disembarked. The area appeared sparsely populated, and they knew no one. They began asking passersby whether there were any Jews in town. No one seemed to know. The mohel grew discouraged and stopped asking, but Rav Mordechai continued. Finally, someone directed them to the town’s only Jewish home.

They hurried there and knocked. When the homeowner opened the door and saw them, he burst into tears. To him, it felt as though Avrohom Avinu and Eliyohu Hanovi had appeared at his doorstep. The guests explained that they were ordinary people, sent to him min haShamayim.

The man warmly invited them in and offered them a place to stay for Shabbos. When he learned that one of the guests was a mohel, his joy was complete.

“A week ago, my wife gave birth to a baby boy,” he said. “Today is the day of his bris. I spent the entire day davening and crying, begging Hashem to send a mohel. And now you are here.”

The bris was performed, with Rav Mordechai serving as the sandek. The two guests remained with the family for a joyous Shabbos.

As they departed after Shabbos, Rav Mordechai turned to the mohel and said, “Remember, a Jew is never lost.”

Even when we think we’ve missed the stop, we are exactly where Hashem wants us to be. A true mekabel Torah receives Torah in fire, water, and midbar. Living with emunah and bitachon, the essence of Lechteich, means trusting Hashem through every uncertainty. Every twist, every delay, is part of His plan, preparing us to receive Torah and life fully. Bitachon isn’t just for hard moments; it is how we are meant to live. Nothing is wasted, nothing is accidental. The yesod is clear: with Hashem guiding everything, we never truly miss the stop. Every step, every moment, even when we’re unsure or think we’ve missed it, is exactly as it should be. With the Eibeshter, everything is perfect. •

It hit me—what we see is often wrong.

Klal Yisrael in Mitzrayim looked broken, abandoned. But Az Yashir wasn’t just gratitude for the sea—it was clarity. Suddenly, Moshe saw that every moment of darkness had purpose.

We don’t get that clarity right away. We just daven that when it’s over, we’ll be able to say: Now I understand.

Beshalach: Singing in Reverse

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Dedicated by Zushy Saltz in honor of R' Don

Parshas Beshalach 5786

Shabbos Shirah. We sing. But there’s a deeper dimension. One that doesn’t necessarily meet the eye naturally.

Krias Yam Suf, Hashem’s splitting of the sea for the Jews after their liberation from Mitzrayim, was the greatest miracle of all time. The seventh day of Pesach commemorates this miracle, and it is part of our daily Pesukei D’Zimrah. Since we are meant to live with constant recognition of the yad Hashem that was displayed for us, His beloved nation, I would like to address a simple question. Why, in fact, did klal Yisrael choose to sing after this miraculous event?

When someone does me a favor, even a great one, I do not sing, and you probably do not either. Yes, we sing Hallel on Rosh Chodesh and Yom Tov; however, there are other ways to give thanks, such as a korban or simple prayers of gratitude like Modim. Why specifically song?

I would like to propose the following.

The koach of shirah and neginah reflects the concept of l’maalah min hateva, beyond the natural course of life. The eighth note is unreachable; nevertheless, it exists within the realm of music. Additionally, a melody does not require lyrics. Lyrics often enhance a melody, but song is an independent entity. To convey a message, the conduit is usually koach hadibur, the power of speech. Song, however, is a deep phenomenon that does not require words. In fact, the melodies themselves often contain more potency than words.

Singers are called into the rooms of people who are leaving this world behind. Why? Because shirah and neginah speak even without words. Shirah can speak directly to the neshamah.

Evidently, shirah and neginah are metaphysical, spiritual forces. Based on this idea, we can understand why klal Yisrael specifically chose to sing. The greatest manifestation of Hashem’s glory had just occurred. To adequately reciprocate their love and appreciation, physical action or spoken words were not sufficient. It would not have done justice to the moment. It was almost as if their thanks would not “fit” into words. Their praise of Hashem through shirah and neginah was an outpouring of the collective soul of klal Yisrael, and an acknowledgment that Hashem broke the rules of nature to save them from the hand of Mitzrayim.

Continuing with the theme of shirah, I would like to share a gem from the Bais Halevi.

When the Torah introduces the episode of the shirah, it uses the word “az,” simply meaning, “and then they sang.” After the splitting of the sea, where they saw the hand of Hashem, “אז ישיר משה ובני ישראל,” Moshe sang a song of thanks to Hashem, and klal Yisrael sang along. Why was the word “az,” “and then,” needed?

The Midrash tells us that this “az” is linked to another “az” in the Torah, at the end of Parshas Shemos (5:23). Moshe tells Hashem, “From the time (‘az’) I came to Pharaoh to speak in Your Name, he did evil to this people, and You did not rescue Your people.” Moshe became angry, criticized Hashem’s conduct, and spoke out of turn. For this atypical behavior, Moshe was punished and lost the opportunity to bring klal Yisrael into Eretz Yisroel.

The Midrash concludes that Moshe’s sin was rectified through the shirah after the splitting of the sea. The word “az” before the shirah is therefore connected to the “az” of Moshe’s earlier complaint. Based on this, the shirah was not merely a song of thanks; it also served as atonement for Moshe.

The difficulty with this Midrash is understanding the connection between these two episodes. What does the shirah at Krias Yam Suf have to do with Moshe complaining to Hashem about Pharaoh’s resilience? Additionally, there is another problem. The Midrash tells us (Shemos Rabbah 23) that from the time Hashem created the world until klal Yisrael stood at the Yam Suf, no one sang shirah to Hashem. Yet another Midrash states that Adam Harishon sang “Mizmor Shir L’Yom HaShabbos” (Tehillim 92) to Hashem. So which is it?

The Bais Halevi offers a new understanding of shirah that resolves both difficulties.

There are two approaches to gratitude.

A person can be thankful that the bad is over, but still see the bad itself as meaningless suffering. Or a person can reach a deeper level, where he looks back and realizes that the darkness itself was part of the good.

When Moshe Rabbeinu led klal Yisrael in shirah, it was this second type of gratitude they reached. They recognized that the galus, the pain, the hester panim, the years of bitterness and enslavement were all part of a greater plan. Without the darkness, the miracle of Krias Yam Suf would never have happened.

When they sang, they were not only thanking Hashem for being saved from Pharaoh. They were thanking Hashem retroactively for the suffering itself. That is why this shirah served as a rectification for Moshe’s earlier complaint. At that time, Moshe saw only brokenness. Now he saw the full picture.

This is not just a concept at the Yam Suf. It plays out in real life as well.

A Yid once shared the following story with Rav Ephraim Wachsman.

His son, a rosh kollel, had made a siyum with the balabatim of his kollel. There was a little l’chaim, a little farbrengen, and people felt comfortable and open.

At one point, one of the men spoke up and said, “I want to share where I come from.”

He grew up to Holocaust-survivor parents who were completely broken and totally disconnected from Yiddishkeit. There was nothing Jewish in the house—no Shabbos, no tefillin, no bar mitzvah. Nothing. The only Jewish thing was Yiddish.

He got into business very young—shady business—and made money fast. By twenty-one, he was wealthy. One night, closing a big deal at a restaurant, he walked in a free man and walked out in handcuffs. Betrayed by others, he was suddenly facing twenty-five years in prison.

Terrified, he cried nonstop.

One day after court, starving and shaking, he went into a café and cried over a cup of coffee. An elderly chassid sat next to him and said, “You look broken. Can I help?”

The young man snapped, “What do you know about problems?”

The chassid quietly rolled up his sleeve and showed him the numbers. “Ikh ken gantz gut fun tzaros.”

The boy broke down and told him everything.

The chassid said, “You don’t need a lawyer. You need a Rebbe.”

They went to the Skolya Rebbe, who listened and said, “Everything will be fine. Hire the best lawyer money can buy. He won’t show up on time. Go anyway.”

In court, the judge thundered, “Where’s your lawyer? You’re going straight to jail.”

At the last second, a young lawyer walks in. A nobody. Wet behind the ears. He starts talking. Rambling. Saying nothing. Making no sense.

Twenty-five years vanished.

Only later did they discover the judge was the lawyer’s grandfather.

The man returned to the Rebbe and asked, “How did you know?” The Rebbe replied, “That’s my business.” Then he added, “Go buy tefillin.”

Slowly, the man became a shomer Torah u’mitzvos.

Rabbi Waxman would say, this is the mashal. We are no different. We are children and grandchildren of the Judge. Sometimes He looks angry. Sometimes the situation feels impossible. But He is always on our side.

That story is shirah.

Not the shirah of relief alone, but the shirah that comes from realizing that Hashem had the full puzzle the entire time. The boy thought his life was ending. In truth, it was beginning. Every frightening step was part of a plan that led him exactly where he needed to be.

That is why klal Yisrael sang “az.” Only now could they look back and see that nothing was random. Nothing was wasted.

May we merit not only to say the shirah each day, but to live with its truth. To know that even when it is dark, even when it hurts, Hashem has the full picture. And if we cannot sing yet, to at least hold onto the knowledge that one day we will. •

Bo: Hung Up. G-d Answered.

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Dedicated by Yaakov and Rivky Drebin / Dreamin Travel (Brooklyn, NY)
l’zechus refuah sheleimah for Eidel bas Esther Malka and Tzvi Elimelech ben Miriam , and in honor of my bar mitzvah

Parshas Bo 5786

Before the final makkah of makas bechoros, the final straw on the camel’s back that led Pharaoh to his ultimate surrender, Hashem speaks to Moshe (Shemos 11:1–2):

ויאמר ה׳ אל משה עוד נגע אחד אביא על פרעה ועל מצרים אחרי כן ישלח אתכם מזה כשלחו כלה גרש יגרש אתכם מזה. דבר נא באזני העם וישאלו איש מאת רעהו ואשה מאת רעותה כלי כסף וכלי זהב.

And Hashem said to Moshe, “I will bring but one more plague upon Pharaoh and upon Egypt. After that, he shall let you go from here. Indeed, when he lets you go, he will drive you out of here completely. Tell the people to borrow, each man from his neighbor and each woman from hers, objects of silver and gold.”

We see a very interesting thing. Before makkas bechoros takes place, the Yidden are instructed to go to the Mitzrim and take garments, vessels, and objects of silver and gold. This all happens before the final makkah.

BORROWING FROM THE MITZRIM

Why? Why was this important? Why was it necessary that, prior to makkas bechoros, the Yidden should be adorned with Mitzri clothing and leave with their vessels?

Rashi addresses this question, based on the Gemara in Brachos 9a. Rashi explains:

דבר נא – אין נא אלא לשון בקשה. בבקשה ממך הזהירם על כך, שלא יאמר אותו צדיק אברהם: ״ועבדום וענו אותם״ קיים בהם, ״ואחרי כן יצאו ברכוש גדול״ לא קיים בהם.

In other words, Hashem says to Moshe: Please tell them to do this, because I do not want Avraham Avinu to come and complain. He could say, “You fulfilled the first part of the promise: that they would be enslaved and oppressed. But the second part of the promise, that they would leave with rechush gadol, You did not fulfill.”

So embedded in Hashem’s instruction, in the very process of how klal Yisrael would leave Mitzrayim and be zocheh to makkas bechoros, is a reminder: Hashem had promised that they would leave with rechush gadol, and that promise needed to be fulfilled in a clear and visible way.

The meforshim ask: Why was Hashem “worried” about Avraham Avinu? Hashem made a promise, and Hashem has to keep His promise. Is there anyone more trustworthy than Hashem?

Additionally, the meforshim ask a second question: Why did it have to happen in this unusual way of borrowing? Why not simply have the Mitzrim drop everything and flee, leaving their wealth behind? Why did the rechush gadol need to be acquired specifically by asking from their oppressors?

The dynamic is startling. It is like a Holocaust survivor approaching Hitler, yimach shemo, and saying, “The Rolex on your wrist, may I have it?” This would be unfathomable. And yet, this is precisely what Hashem instructs. These were the very same Mitzrim who had been cruel, brutal oppressors and killers. And now, suddenly, they are called “friends,” from whom the Yidden are expected to request silver, gold, and vessels.

THE GREATEST RECHUS: BITACHON

The sefer אך פרי לצדיק, written by Rav Tzvi Hirsch of Liska, known as the Lisker Rebbe, a talmid of the Chozeh of Lublin and the rebbe of Reb Shayala of Kerestir, offers deep, life-changing perspectives and jaw-dropping yesodos.

At the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim, klal Yisrael were holding at an unprecedented level. They had endured servitude and oppression, almost at mem tes shaarei tumah, and then they were elevated. They were groomed, led into a position of tremendous bitachon. Their emunah and bitachon were overflowing.

Rav Tzvi Hirsch explains that through the ten makkos, klal Yisrael reached the highest level of bitachon ever attained. Ten demonstrations of Hashem’s control brought them to the highest level possible. At that point, they already possessed the greatest rechush gadol possible: bitachon itself. There was no need for anything physical. Living with Hashem, trusting Him fully, is greater than any gold or silver.

So why was Hashem, כביכול, “worried” about Avraham Avinu? Technically, Hashem could have said, “I have fulfilled My promise. Look at their rechush, their spiritual wealth.” But Hashem does not take care of His children in a way that is only intangible—other people would not see it. Hashem wanted a physical manifestation of the promise as well.

Accordingly, we can answer: Why did the rechush gadol have to be acquired derech she’eilah, through borrowing? Because real rechush comes through avodah, through bitachon, through going back to the oppressor and trusting Hashem completely. If the Mitzrim had simply dropped everything, it would not have required bitachon.

Hashem said: If you truly believe in Me, go back and ask, and do not worry. That was the final nisayon. Even taking the rechush had to be derech bitachon.

They were about to experience the Midbar—the time of לכתך אחרי במדבר בארץ לא זרוע—prepared to receive the Torah and to become a mamleches kohanim v’goy kadosh. What defined them was bitachon. Nothing else. And when you have that, there is no teva. Nothing has to make sense, because you are relying completely on Hashem.

When you are not dealing with teva, when you are being groomed for Lechteich, you can even go back to Hitler, yimach shemo, and ask for the Rolex on his wrist if Hashem says it will be okay.

Unbelievable Torah from the Lisker Rav.

It’s bitachon that klal Yisrael needed to attain before becoming the Am Hanivchar, before experiencing Krias Yam Suf and Yetzias Mitzrayim. With bitachon, anything is possible—we just have to believe.

HANGING UP ON THE WORLD

Which brings me to an incident that happened this week.

This week I had to update my auto insurance. About 20 minutes before Mincha, the company needed documents proving coverage from 2020–2024. I figured I’d squeeze in a quick call, get the papers, and be done.

I reached Berkshire Hathaway, went through endless verification, and the rep said it would take 5–10 minutes to pull everything together. At the same time, I had to jump onto another call. I asked if I could keep him on mute, and he explained the protocol: he’d check in at 5, 10, and 15 minutes—if I didn’t respond by the last one, he’d hang up. No callbacks. No exceptions.

I stayed on mute as the minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Mincha was starting.

And then it hit me: yes, I wanted the documents, and yes, I didn’t want to go through this whole process again tomorrow. But Mincha was beginning. The rep was on the line—but the King of kings was waiting for me.

So I put the phone down and went to daven.

I stood before Hashem, the true source of everything. If I was meant to get these documents, it wouldn’t depend on a rep, a protocol, or a verification process.

After Mincha, I saw there was an email with all the documents.

This is not meant as a “miracle story,” but as a reminder: Systems, policies, and protocols don’t run the world. Hashem does. And sometimes, the moment you hang up on the world and turn to Him, the answer is already on its way.

This is the power of bitachon—the trust that klal Yisrael needed before becoming the Am Hanivchar, before crossing the Yam Suf and leaving Mitzrayim. Sometimes, all it takes is hanging up, letting go, and turning fully to Hashem, and the answer comes from Him exactly when it’s meant to arrive. When we truly rely on Him, even the impossible becomes possible, and the world’s obstacles fade away. •

A single pasuk in the seventh makkah draws a sharp line between what is destroyed and what survives. What looks like an agricultural detail becomes a terrifying spiritual forecast: Arrogance and a corrupted mouth cannot endure the storm, while humility and attachment to Torah place a person beyond the reach of nature itself.

Ancient prophecy collides with a modern, jaw-dropping story of salvation that defies every rule.

When everything is falling apart, the real question isn’t what’s happening around you—but who you’re becoming.

Cancer Cured in the Beis Medrash | Vaeira

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Dedicated by Zvi and Tova Mermelstein (Wesley Hills, NY) l’illui nishmas my father, R’ Naftali Simcha ben R’ Avrohom a”h

Parshas Vaeira 5786

Iran is facing a moment of upheaval. People are rising against oppression, and the outcome is unknown. Protests and unrest have spread across cities and towns, and thousands have died. Fear and anxiety are real in the region, and tension is rising around the world.

In times like these, it can feel as if the world is out of control. Yet we know that Hashem is guiding history. Even in the storms of life, some endure, some fall, and some grow quietly, steadily, with patience and humility. True strength is not always loud or immediate; it is measured by who remains connected to Torah and to Hashem, even when the chaos surrounds them.

HAIL

The 7th makkah, makkas barad: The hail comes down and literally rocks all of Egypt. Fire cased in ice, a miracle within a miracle.

Pharaoh is overwhelmed and asks Moshe to pray for him. Moshe responds that he will pray and the hail will stop. But  Moshe adds a detail (Shemos 9:31-32):

והפשתה והשערה נכתה כי השערה אביב והפשתה גבעל. והחטה והכסמת לא נכו כי אפילת הנה.

The flax and the barley were struck, for the barley was ripe and the flax was in its stalk. But the wheat and the spelt were not struck, because they ripen later.

On the surface, what Moshe said about the different grains seem to be straightforward facts which he related to Pharaoh.

However, the Pituchei Chosam, Rav Yisroel Abuchatzeira, reveals that embedded within these words is a penetrating remez about kiyum, endurance, and who ultimately survives in olam hazeh and olam haba. He writes that the pasuk is not only describing different crops, but rather different types of people.

TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE PASUK

The פשתה, flax, is read as a remez through its letters. פשתה is associated with the letters of שפתים, the lips. It alludes to those whose failure lies in misuse of speech: בעלי לשון הרע, שקר, חנופה, וליצנות.

Next in the pasuk is the barley, שערה, which is comprised of the letters רשעה, wickednesss, a remez to sinners, and specifically בעלי גאוה.

These two categories, the בעלי לשון הרע and the בעלי גאוה, are destined to be נוכתה, wiped out – completely obliterated. They flourish early, they rise to the top quickly like crops that ripen quickly, but because of that, they are vulnerable to destruction. They have a tough shell, but are flimsy and weak.

This is in contrast to the next grain, wheat and spelt, not just in their outer appearance, but in a deeper dimension as well:

"The wheat and spelt will not not get struck." Why do they survive?

The gematria of חטה is כ״ב – 22, corresponding to the כ״ב אותיות התורה – the 22 letters of the alef-beis, the letters of the Torah.

This represents בעלי תורה, those completely bound to the Torah and its precepts.

Spelt, כוסמת is the next grain that won’t get struck, and its letters are interchangeable with the letters סומכת, one who leans, who relies. אלו הסומכים על התורה, these are those who place their ביטחון on Torah and on the Ribono shel Olam.

These people will not get struck, not in this world, and not in the next. Why? Because אפילות הנה – they are “late-ripening,” They are humble. They do not rush to prominence. They allow Torah to form them slowly, deeply, organically. And from this process, authentic growth emerges. Their humility, joint with their attachment to Torah, is the key to their kiyum.

Thus, what appears to be a simple agricultural forecast becomes a timeless spiritual law. Those driven by gaavah and corrupted speech may rise quickly, but they fall. Those who bind themselves to Torah with anivus endure forever.

Moshe Rabbeinu was not merely warning Pharaoh about what would be destroyed in Egypt. He was revealing who truly endures through history.

A LESSON FROM THE MIRRER ROSH YESHIVA

This Shabbos, כ״ח טבת, marks the yahrtzeit of the Mirrer Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Shmuel Berenbaum.

Rav Zechariah Wallerstein, his talmid, recounts:

There was an avreich in the Mir, a yungerman in his early sixties, who had been learning in yeshiva for over thirty years. His wife had sacrificed everything to enable that life. She carried the burden of the home, raised the children, and allowed him to sit and learn with utmost yishuv hadaas, uninterrupted for decades. Together they had built a family of bnei Torah.

One day, his wife was diagnosed with stage-four cancer.

Broken and terrified, the avreich went to Rav Shmuel. “Rebbe,” he said, “My wife is dying. I have children to marry off, a family that depends on her. I need a neis. Please, do something.”

Rav Shmuel answered honestly. “I am not a mekubal. I don’t have access to segulos or kabbalos.”

The avreich replied, “Rebbe, for thirty years I have learned Torah here. My wife gave me that ability. If there is anything that can be done, you must do it.”

Rav Shmuel listened, nodded gently, and the avreich left.

A week later, the avreich returned, shaken. “Rebbe,” he said, “I didn’t travel anywhere. I didn’t seek out mekubalim. My wife went for a scan yesterday, and the cancer is gone. What happened?”

Rav Shmuel answered with complete simplicity.

“When you left my room, my heart broke. I thought to myself: I am not a mekubal, but I do have a shaychus with Abaye and Rava. I have lived with them for eighty years. You have lived with them for decades. I began to cry and I said: ‘Abaye, Rava, if you do not intercede for this man, how will he continue learning your Torah?’ That is all I did. If it had anything to do with your visit to me, it was likely in the zechus of Abaye and Rava.”

A LESSON FOR TODAY

While this sounds like a Rebbishe maaseh, one of kabbalah or esoteric power, the story happened with Rav Shmuel, who definitely was not connected to that. He was kol kulo nigleh, Gemara, Rishonim, Achronim, lomdus — this was his life.

But based on the Torah we have studied, it is not such a novelty. As we have learned, when a person is a כוסמת, when he is a סומך על התורה, when his life is bound to the כ״ב אותיות התורה, he is no longer confined to the narrow rules of teva alone. That does not negate doctors or hishtadlus, but it means that he is living primarily with the Ribono shel Olam.

Such a person is not operated by the world in the same way.

We all need miracles. We all carry darkness, the unknown. But with the Torah Hakedoshah, with חטה – the twenty-two letters of the Torah, and כוסמת – being סומכת on the Eibeshter, life is simply different.

During days like these, a time set aside for introspection, for strengthening קדושה and טהרה, for reconnecting to אמת, we must ask ourselves whether we are plugged into the right things. Sometimes it is difficult. Sometimes it looks strange. Sometimes people question why we are learning more, guarding ourselves more, living differently.

But it is worth everything.

It is not only the machlah, the cancer, that can be healed in the Beis Hamedrash through the koach of Torah. It is anything. Everything. There is no limit. Just as Hashem has no limits.

Life with Torah, humility, and trust in Hashem changes everything. •

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Dedicated by Anonymous (Lakewood, NJ) l’zechus refuah shelaimah for Chaim ben Brocha Dina

Dedicated by Elliot Safier (Wesley Hills, NY)

Parshas Shemos 5786

Last Friday I went to visit Rabbi and Rebbetzin Feuer in Lakewood, New Jersey, with whom I am fortunate to have had a longstanding relationship for over three decades. It was perfect timing.

As the rebbetzin was reminiscing about her father, I casually asked when her father’s yahrtzeit was. She replied, “Actually, it’s coming up 23 Teves, this Monday.”

Her father, Rabbi Mordechai Gifter, Rosh Yeshiva of Telshe, epitomized the idea that greatness is not something one is born with. He was a true leader for all of klal Yisrael, not only for Telshe in Cleveland. His Torah, his lomdus, his middos, his fiery shmuessen, and his enduring impact can still be felt and heard in the dormitory halls of yeshivos throughout the world. He was an ish emes, and he was not born into greatness.

THE SPARK OF DETERMINATION

Rabbi Mordechai Gifter was born in Portsmouth, Virginia in 1915 and attended public school. There was no framework pushing him forward and no one mapping out a Torah future for him. Yet even as a young boy, he knew one thing with absolute clarity. He had to know Torah. He had to become a talmid chacham.

His grandson, Rav Tzvi, told me that he still has the Mishnayos and Tanach his grandfather used as a seven or eight-year-old boy. Every night, he would sit alone by the fire during the cold winter nights, learning from the sacred books. He was completely alone. No encouragement, no audience, no recognition. Just a quiet but burning sense that he was meant for something higher. He did not wait for ideal conditions. He did not say “later.” He maximized exactly where he was and stretched beyond the world he had been given.

SEIZING THE MOMENT

That same fire followed him into his teenage years when he became a student at RJJ. He was still young and raw in learning, but his inner certainty never changed. He would learn day and night, driven by the knowledge that becoming a talmid chacham was not optional. After pulling all-nighters or coming close to it almost every night, spending hours immersed in Torah, he knew that getting up in the morning for Shacharis would not be easy. It was a real challenge.

To make sure he would get up, he made a deal with his roommate, Rav Moshe Bick. If he did not rise immediately for Shacharis, his roommate was to pull him out of bed and lay him on the floor. In the 1920s, there was no heat in the winter and no air conditioning in the summer. The stone floor in the winter was freezing cold, and in the summer, it was stiflingly hot. Being laid on the floor was extreme, but it ensured he would wake up for Shacharis.

He was determined. He did not wait. He had growth to attain, and he knew that if the moment in front of him was the opportunity he had, he could not push it off. He seized the moment, and he grew.

Growth and leadership are not attained through luck or convenience. They are attained through courage, fearlessness, belief in oneself, and, most of all, by taking steps when the opportunity is in front of you. It is recognizing what the moment presents and focusing on that. Doing this again and again, over a lifetime, allows a person to grow, to bring Hashem joy and pleasure, and to become the best version of oneself.

LEADERSHIP IN ACTION

On the topic of leadership, as we begin Sefer Shemos, we are introduced to the greatest leader of all time, Moshe Rabbeinu. The Torah itself tells us, “לא קם בישראל כמשה עוד – no one will rise like Moshe ever again.”

What is interesting is the name by which he is known. “Moshe” was not his only name. It was the name given to him by Basya, Pharaoh’s daughter, when she drew him out of the river. But in truth, Moshe had many other names, each carrying deep meaning. For example, Tuvia, meaning “goodness of G‑d”; Avigdor; Yered, connected either to the manna falling or to bringing down the Torah; Shemaya, reflecting his service to Hashem; and Levi, referencing his tribal lineage.

So why does the Torah choose to call him Moshe, the name given by Basya, rather than one of these other meaningful names?

THE DANGER OF "LATER"

Rav Asher Weiss explains, based on a teaching of Rav Chatzkel Abramsky, the meaning of a well-known Gemara regarding Matan Torah. The Gemara in Shabbos 88a teaches:

מלמד שכפה הקדוש ברוך הוא עליהם את ההר כגיגית, ואמר להם: אם אתם מקבלים התורה מוטב, ואם לא — שם תהא קבורתכם.

Hashem held the mountain over them like a barrel and said, “If you accept the Torah, good. If not, sham, there will be your burial.”

Rav Chatzkel Abramsky asks, why is it sham, there? The burial place should be here, right under the mountain!

Rav Chatzkel Abramsky explains that sham, “there,” refers not to a physical location, but to all the moments and opportunities that were pushed off. It is the pile of chances delayed until they were missed, the benchmarks never met, the growth postponed indefinitely. It is not here, because the “burial place” is not under the mountain itself—it is under the heap of times, opportunities, and responsibilities that were set aside, postponed, or forgotten. Sham is the accumulation of “later” that buries potential.

Drawing from that idea, indeed, Moshe had other, much more meaningful names, but the Torah chooses the name Moshe because of the incident with Basya, an Egyptian. Why? Basya saw a baby drowning in the river and acted immediately. She did not wait, calculate, or ask permission. She recognized the moment, seized it, and extended her hand. Hashem completed the rest. The name Moshe reminds us that true leadership and greatness are born from acting courageously in the moment. It is not about waiting for perfect conditions or for something else to happen. It is about now.

GREATNESS IS FORGED NOW

This is how greatness is shaped and created. Not by living in sham, “later,” waiting for things to be different, easier, or lighter. Greatness is forged now, in the moment, whatever the circumstances may be.

When we talk about Moshe, the leader and greatest Navi of all time, the story of Basya and her outstretched arm can easily be lost or forgotten. Yet the Torah calls him Moshe to remind us of that story—of Basya, her courage, her immediate action, and her willingness to seize the moment before her. The name Moshe is a permanent reminder that true leadership begins with recognizing the opportunity in front of you and acting without delay.

Greatness, leadership, and personal growth are not found in ideal circumstances or postponed for “later.” They are forged in the choices we make now, in the moments we are given, and in the courage to act even when it is hard, inconvenient, or uncomfortable. Leadership is not only for rabbis, roshei yeshivah, gedolei Yisrael, or CEOs. We are all leaders—leaders of ourselves. And the true measure of leadership in those esteemed roles is rooted in mastering the art of leading oneself.

Every day presents opportunities to stretch beyond what we think is possible and to seize the moment before us. You are a leader. The opportunities are endless. Every second presents decisions to be made. Do not push them off for later. Don’t kick the can. The time is now. •

A wartime story of total loss becomes a profound lesson in faith, perspective, and deveikus. From Auschwitz to rebuilding a life, one man discovers the one thing that can never be stolen—and why the darkest moment of his life became the clearest.

Through the lens of Yosef, Ephraim, and Menashe, this episode explores bazeh—serving Hashem right where you are, even when it’s hard, even when it’s dark.

A powerful reminder that when you have Hashem, you truly have everything.

Vayechi: Even in Auschwitz

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Parshas Vayechi 5786

In today’s world, we wake up to headlines that are frightening and uncertain: war, political upheaval, natural disasters, economic instability. It can feel like the ground beneath us is shifting, like everything we depend on might be taken away. How do we respond when life becomes unpredictable? Where do we place our trust? How do we get through?

FAITH IN DARKNESS

A friend once shared this story with me:

There was a Polish Yid who lived a full, beautiful life. He had a wife, children, parnassah, everything in place. Life was good. Then the Germans invaded, and almost overnight he realized that everything he had built was about to be taken from him. The shift from comfort and stability to terror was overwhelming. But he was a baal bitachon, a chassid who worked hard to hold onto perspective as everything unraveled.

First, they destroyed his business. He told himself, my parnassah is gone, everything I built is gone, but at least I still have my family and my home. Then they emptied his house. Again he reframed. At least we had warning. At least we packed one suitcase. At least I still have my family. Then they took the suitcases. Still, he told himself, at least I still have my wife and children.

And then they took his family.

At that point, he felt finished. He had recalibrated again and again, but now there was nothing left. As people were lined up to be sent to Auschwitz, he stood there stripped of everything. No business. No home. No possessions. No wife. No children.

He asked himself one final question: Is there anything left at all? Anything worth living for? Why continue when there is nothing to hold on to?

He stood there for about half an hour, empty and broken, watching people sent right and left and knowing what awaited them. In that half hour, in the darkest place on earth, something stirred. Some small reserve of resolve. And suddenly, with a clarity he had never known before, he realized:

I still have Hashem.

The war ended. He survived. He rebuilt. He moved to Tel Aviv, remarried, built a new family, rebuilt his parnassah, and became successful again. From the outside, his life looked complete. Yet for years he said something shocking.

“I wish I could go back to that half hour in Auschwitz. Not because of the pain, but because it was the clearest moment of my life. When I had nothing. When it was just me and Hashem. And no one could take that away. That was when I felt richest. Closest.”

Because when you have Hashem, you have everything. Even in Auschwitz.

"WHO ARE THESE?"

When Yaakov saw Yosef’s sons, he asked (Bereishis 48:8-10), “Who are these?” Yosef replied, “בני הם אשר נתן לי אלקים בזה — they are my sons, whom G-d has given me here.” Then Yaakov said, “קחם נא אלי ואברכם — bring them to me, that I may bless them.”

At first glance, this seems straightforward. Yaakov simply wanted to know who these boys were, and Yosef answered. Yet Rashi reveals a deeper tension beneath the text.

When Yaakov saw Yosef’s sons, he wasn’t merely asking their identity. Rashi explains: בקש לברכם ונסתלקה שכינה ממנו, לפי שעתיד ירבעם ואחאב לצאת מאפרים ויהוא ובניו ממנשה. Yaakov wanted to bless them, but the Divine Presence would depart from him because in the future Yeravam and Ahav would arise from Ephraim, and Yehu and his descendants from Menasheh.

Thus, Yaakov pressed, “מי אלה?” Rashi comments: מהיכן יצאו אלו, שאינן ראויין לברכה. He was questioning their worthiness in light of the future evil that would emerge from their tribes. The sons themselves had not sinned, yet history already weighed upon them.

Yosef, ever aware of the importance of his father’s blessing before he passed, הראה לו שטר אירוסין ושטר כתובה ובקש רחמים על הדבר, ונחה עליו רוח הקודש. Yosef showed Yaakov his shtar erusin and shtar kesubah, and prayed for mercy concerning his children. At that moment, the Divine Spirit returned and rested upon Yaakov, allowing him to bless them.

But the lingering question remains. The meforshim ask: Even after Yosef showed the shtar erusin and shtar kesubah, Yaakov’s main concern seemingly remained unresolved. His hesitation was not about legitimacy. It was about the future. He saw that from these very tribes would one day emerge evil. Granted, the children were born בכשרות, but how does that address what Yaakov saw ahead? How could documents overcome a prophetic concern?

THE POWER OF "HERE"

Elucidating on an approach found in Rav Yaakov Galinsky, as well as in Mivchar Amarim in the name of the Avnei Chen, the answer lies in one word: בזה.

Yes, Yosef showed the shtar erusin and shtar kesubah as proof that everything was done properly. But בזה means far more than paperwork. As the Sefer Be’er Mayim Chaim explains, the word בזה refers to something tangible, something one can literally point to with a finger.

Yosef pointed to the documents, but he also pointed to בזה. To this. To here. To Mitzrayim. Yosef was saying: With this, here, in this very place, in this darkness, in this spiritually hostile environment, this is where I raised my children.

Look at my brothers, Yosef was telling his father. Look at the other ten tribes. They grew up in your home, surrounded by kedushah, clarity, and stability. I was placed here, בזה, in Mitzrayim, in isolation, temptation, and constant pressure. This is where Hashem put me. I am not in control of the setting. I am only responsible for what I do within it. I do not understand the darkness. But לכתך, I will keep going. I will remain faithful. I will build here.

Hashem does not judge us by perfect conditions. He judges us by what we do with the conditions we are given. How perfect and wholesome we strive to serve Him, regardless of the conditions. Sometimes, it is precisely the difficulty of the situation that allows for greater growth than comfort ever could. It is not about being in the perfect place. It is about being faithful in the place we are placed.

That is what I am showing you, Yosef was saying. Not merely producing documents to prove that everything is כשר, but reminding you that Hashem accounts for circumstance as well.

And in conclusion, all of this is in one word, בזה, Yosef said. The future may hold darkness. Wickedness may yet emerge from my offspring. But what counts is the present. This is where I raised my children. This is where I stood firm, with my head held high, despite every reason to give up.

And this is what answered Yaakov’s concern. Yaakov’s hesitation was not about documents or details. It came from what he saw ahead. He sensed the future, and that awareness made it hard for him to act in the present.

Yosef didn’t argue about the future. He was redefining the standard. He was teaching what it means to be a kli kibul, a vessel fit to receive blessing. Blessing is not a guarantee of outcomes. It is about the present, what stands before us, what needs assistance, healing, direction, and success, truth.

Once Yaakov saw that, once he saw goodness that emerged here, under these conditions, the future no longer blocked the present. The Shechinah could rest again, and the blessing could be given. That is the power of בזה.

Blessing, perspective, and resilience are not about perfect conditions or predicting the future. They are about presence, about faithfulness in the place we are given, even when circumstances are dark, frightening, or uncertain. Just as the Yid in Auschwitz discovered clarity, richness, and connection to Hashem when stripped of everything, he even wanted to relive that half hour years later. How? Why? What did he want?

The answer is that Yosef showed Yaakov that integrity, growth, and goodness can emerge even in the harshest environments. It’s about the now, working within the circumstances to make them as perfect as possible, not about being in perfect circumstances.

The future may hold challenges, the world may shift beyond our control, but בזה—here, in this place, in this moment—is where we live, where we act, and where Hashem judges our truth. This is what made Yosef’s children worthy of blessing, and this is what allows us to stand strong in our own lives. It is not about waiting for the ideal conditions. It is about rising to the challenge of the present and finding meaning, faith, and light in the reality we have been given. Even in Egypt. Even in Auschwitz. Certainly, wherever we are. •

Vayigash: False Night

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Parshas Vayigash 5786

The taste of donuts and latkes is still fresh in our mouths. We just came off the lights of Chanukah. We felt connected, inspired, and uplifted, and now it is over. For those of us who tapped into Zos Chanukah, we learned about the tremendous opportunity of the day and hopefully we utilized it. We davened. We prayed for ourselves, for others, for everything we want and need.

We all have things we want and need, and it is not only important but incumbent upon all of us to remember that the one address for everything is our loving Father in heaven. Yet it is important to consider what happens when we pour our hearts out in prayer, when we channel everything to Him, and we do not see the results we hoped for. When we encounter rejection, disappointment, or shattered hopes.

When we want light and miracles, when we seek happiness and joy, and instead we encounter darkness, difficulty, rejection, or disappointment, how does a Yid respond? What does the Torah teach us? More fundamentally, what is the true and only perspective?

SEARCHING FOR CLARITY

Going back to the 12th century, there was a young, sickly talmid of the Ramban who carried a deep question. He was destined to pass away at a young age. Before he died, he turned to his rabbi, the Ramban, and asked for clarity. He wanted to understand why he had been given a life that seemed filled with misery, pain, and ultimately ended so young, unaccomplished and unfulfilled.

The Ramban reassured him and promised to write a kamei’a, an amulet, to be buried with him. This kamei’a would grant him access to a very special, exclusive chamber called כסאות למשפט, the Thrones of Justice. In that chamber, he could ask all of his questions, especially why he had died so young, and also why the Jewish nation in this generation suffers so many tzaros.

Sometime later, after the boy had died, the Ramban was learning Torah near a window. Suddenly, the window opened, and he saw his student, as though he were alive. The Ramban said, “Nu, what happened? What about the shailos I told you to ask?”

The bachur responded, “With your kamei’a in hand, I went from chamber to chamber, and indeed, none of the malachim stopped me. I reached the chamber called כסאות למשפט. But I did not ask the questions you instructed me to ask, because Hashem’s kindness is revealed in that chamber. Even matters that seem bad here are solely for the good. I had nothing to ask.”

The perspective is that we do not know best, and we do not have the master plan. But the one thing we do know is that even when it seems dark, even when we do not have the answers, even when the outcomes are not as we expected, in the place of the divine where Hashem resides, everything fits perfectly. Everything is truly good, and nothing is missing. There is no such thing as darkness.

A VISION OF NIGHT

In this week’s parshah, after Yosef reveals himself, Yaakov Avinu prepares to leave Eretz Yisrael and descend into Mitzrayim. It is the beginning of galus, the opening of one of the darkest periods in Jewish history, a reality that will bring centuries of suffering to his descendants.

Before Yaakov takes this step, the Torah records a dialogue between Yaakov and Hashem:

ויאמר אלקים לישראל במראת הלילה. ויאמר יעקב יעקב ויאמר הנני.

Elucidating on an idea from Rav Meilech Biderman, on a simple level, “במראת הלילה” means that Hashem appeared to Yaakov in a prophetic vision at night. But the wording of the pasuk is unusual. If the Torah merely wished to describe the time, it could have said ויהי בלילה or placed the phrase at the beginning of the pasuk. Instead, “במראת הלילה” appears embedded within the pasuk, suggesting that it is not describing when Hashem appeared, but how He appeared.

The Torah is teaching us that Yaakov Avinu was about to enter לילה. Not literal night, but a spiritual darkness. A reality in which the presence of Hashem would feel hidden and distant. Hashem therefore appears to Yaakov specifically in the בחינה of מראת הלילה, a vision of night, to show that what lies ahead will look like לילה, but it will only be a מראה. An appearance. Hashem is showing Yaakov that He is present even when He seems concealed.

This understanding sheds light on Yaakov’s response. When Hashem calls out “יעקב יעקב,” Yaakov answers “הנני.” This is not a simple acknowledgment. “הנני” expresses full פנימיות, complete presence. Yaakov is not merely hearing the words. He is internalizing this new mode of divine relationship, learning that even when Hashem appears through concealment, He is still fully there.

Only after Yaakov reaches this level of אמונה וביטחון does Hashem continue:

אל־תירא מרדה מצרימה...אנכי ארד עמך מצרימה.

Do not fear the descent...I Myself will go down with you.

The reassurance comes after Yaakov’s הנני. Once Yaakov understands that the לילה is only a מראה, once he accepts that Hashem is present even within the darkness, fear no longer defines the descent.

And this is not only the story of Yaakov Avinu.

I would like to add, the Zohar Hakadosh points out an irregularity in this pasuk. He wonders why the word במראת is written חסר, missing the letter ו, and leaves the question unanswered. We can suggest an approach: Perhaps the missing ו hints at a deeper meaning. The מראה is not the full image. It is only an allusion, a hint. Something is indeed missing. When we encounter darkness, it is not the complete picture. The darkness we feel is only an appearance, fake. In the world of truth, it is not real. There’s only light.

Every Yid encounters moments of מראת הלילה. Times that feel dark, confusing, and empty of clarity. The Torah teaches us that these moments may look like לילה, but they are not true darkness. They are a מראה. Hashem is there, even when He is hidden.

And when a person can say “הנני”, not because it is easy, but because he trusts that Hashem is present even here, that itself transforms the night.

THE PASSPORTS THAT WEREN'T

The Bobover Rebbe zt”l would relate that during the Second World War there was a brief period when it was possible to obtain passports to Costa Rica, which could save a person from the Nazis. The Rebbe invested enormous sums of money to secure passports for himself and his family. When the day came to collect the documents, he was told that the operation had suddenly been shut down. No passports were being issued. The Rebbe was shattered. Aside from the great financial loss, this had seemed like the only viable escape.

Not wanting to return home empty-handed, he went to the beis medrash to learn and seek chizuk. He took a sefer kabbalah, sefer Tiferes Uziel, and opened to the page which cited the pasuk:

 רחוק מישועתי דברי שאגתי. אלקי אקרא יומם ולא תענה ולילה ולא־דמיה לי.

Far from my salvation are the words of my roar. My G-d, I call out by day, and You do not answer; and by night, and there is no rest for me.”

The sefer cited a pirush from the Shelah Hakadosh on the pasuk:

ואני תפלתי לך ה׳ עת רצון אלקים ברב חסדך ענני באמת ישעך.

A person often davens for something he believes is good, when in truth it is not. Therefore, one should daven that Hashem answer only “באמת”, with truth. Give me what is truly my yeshuah.

This is the meaning of “רחוק מישועתי דברי שאגתי”. If my request is far from my true salvation, then “אקרא יומם ולא תענה”. Hashem should not answer.

Learning this insight gave the Bobover Rebbe great comfort. With this clarity, he returned home.

Months went by and soon the Rebbe was informed that all those who received the Costa Rica documents were killed. The Rebbe and his family were saved precisely because the passports never came.

FOR OUR BENEFIT

The message is clear: What may feel like disappointment or loss in this world can actually be the greatest act of Divine kindness. Hashem’s ways are beyond our understanding, and sometimes what seems devastating is exactly what protects us. In His wisdom, everything is for our benefit, even when we cannot see it at the time.

So we return to where we began.

After Chanukah, after the tefillos, the inspiration, the closeness we felt, we sometimes find that the answers did not come the way we hoped. The light feels distant. The days are short, the nights are long, and the darkness begins to weigh on us.

But this is what we must remember: Everything is good, and everything is for our benefit, even when we cannot see it.

There are moments when we wish the outcome were different, when we do not understand why our tefillos were not answered as we imagined. But when we surrender, when we submit ourselves to Hashem with אמונה וביטחון, we stop demanding, we stop insisting. We accept that we do not see the full picture, and that He does.

לילה, darkness and hardship, is not what we want. But with the right perspective, we know that it is not true darkness at all. It is only מראת הלילה. A vision of night. Merely an illusion.

Because in the world of truth, even in the night, even in the darkness, there is light. •