What if every moment of life carries a hidden sword?
This week's parsha reveals a startling Midrash: when the Luchos descended from Shamayim, they came bundled together with a sword.
Why would the Torah of life arrive alongside a symbol of death?
Listen on: 
Dedicated by Ari and Elana Lorber (Brooklyn, NY) l’illui nishmas Rivka bas Avraham Tzvi, Binyomin Tzvi ben Eliezer, Gitel bas Avraham Yitzchak, Moshe Shmuel ben Tvi
L’zechus refuah shelaimah for דוד משה בן יהודית רחל
Dedicated by the Jarashow family
Parshas Reeh 5786
Parashas Re’eh, whose very first word means “See,” is always read just before Rosh Chodesh Elul. That is no coincidence. The Torah is calling out to us: See. Open your eyes. Wake up. Start thinking. Elul is at the doorstep. The carefree days of summer are coming to an end; routine is about to resume, and the realization begins to sink in that the Yamim Noraim are only thirty days away. Before the shofar sounds, before the introspection begins, the Torah gives us a single command: “Re’eh”—See. See where you’re headed. See the choices before you. See the life you’re building. Pay attention to where you are going. And if you need to reroute or rethink, now is the time.
SEE THE CHOICES BEFORE YOU
This week’s parashah opens with the pasuk, “רְאֵה אָנֹכִי נֹתֵן לִפְנֵיכֶם הַיּוֹם בְּרָכָה וּקְלָלָה”—“See, I place before you today a blessing and a curse” (Devarim 11:26).
The Midrash, introducing this pasuk, immediately points us to the words of Yirmiyahu:
זֶה שֶׁאָמַר הַכָּתוּב (ירמיה יג, טו): שִׁמְעוּ וְהַאֲזִינוּ אַל תִּגְבָּהוּ וגו׳.
Listen and give ear; do not become arrogant.
The Midrash asks: What does it mean to “listen and give ear,” and what is the connection to “do not become arrogant”? It answers that listening means listening to the words of Torah, while arrogance means preventing goodness from entering the world. As Yeshayah teaches:
אִם תֹּאבוּ וּשְׁמַעְתֶּם טוּב הָאָרֶץ תֹּאכֵלוּ. וְאִם תְּמָאֲנוּ וּמְרִיתֶם חֶרֶב תְּאֻכְּלוּ כִּי פִּי ה׳ דִּבֵּר.
If you are willing and you listen, you will enjoy the goodness of the land. But if you refuse and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword, for the mouth of Hashem has spoken.
The message is clear: our relationship with Torah determines whether blessing or destruction enters the world. Rabbi Elazar expresses this idea with one of the Midrash’s most striking images:
אָמַר רַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר, הַסַּיִּף וְהַסֵּפֶר יָרְדוּ כְּרוּכִים מִן הַשָּׁמַיִם. אָמַר לָהֶן: אִם תַּעֲשׂוּ מַה שֶּׁכָּתוּב בַּסֵּפֶר הַזֶּה, אַתֶּם נִצּוֹלִים מִן הַסַּיִּף הַזֶּה; וְאִם לֹא תַעֲשׂוּ, אַתֶּם נֶהֱרָגִים בַּסַּיִּף הַזֶּה.
The sword and the Sefer descended from Heaven intertwined. Hashem said to Klal Yisrael: If you fulfill what is written in this Sefer, you will be saved from the sword. But if you do not, you will perish by the sword.
THE SWORD AND THE SEFER
The Alter of Kelm uses this Midrash to teach us one of the most fundamental principles of life. One of the most striking teachings of Chazal is that when the Torah was given, the sword and the scroll descended from Heaven intertwined. To me, this was a shocker. The Torah didn’t come down alone; there was a sword with it!
This is a Midrash pliyah.
But even more wondrous is the message deeply embedded within it.
Why did Hashem orchestrate that the Torah and the sword descend together? One represents life, holiness, growth, and eternity; the other represents violence, death, and destruction. Why should these two opposites be intertwined?
Even more striking, this occurred at the very moment we became Hashem’s chosen nation, elevated above all the nations of the world through the giving of the Torah. Why would the symbol of death accompany the very gift that defines life?
The Alter explains that there is no contradiction at all. This is the very essence—not merely of the scroll and the sword, but of life itself. Hashem orchestrated this scene as an eternal lesson, one we are meant to return to whenever we seek to understand what life is truly about. At the very moment Klal Yisrael was born as a nation and received the Torah, Hashem taught us the fundamental reality that would define every generation thereafter:
Every person is constantly moving in one of two directions—either toward true life or toward death.
The scroll and the sword are not opposites that happen to descend together; they reveal the two paths that stand before every human being.
TWO DIRECTIONS
A person who lives only for the material world doesn’t suddenly begin dying at the end of his life. Rather, each passing day is one less day that can never be recovered. His life is slowly slipping away. Every sunrise brings him one step closer to the sword.
But the Jew who lives with Torah, with elevation, always on the path of truth and ruchniyus, experiences the exact opposite.
Before a child is born, Chazal teach that he is shown the entire Torah. Although that knowledge is forgotten at birth, its imprint remains on his soul. Life becomes a journey of rediscovering who he really is. Every mitzvah performed, every page of Gemara learned, every act of kindness, and every moment of self-improvement uncovers another piece of that eternal neshamah.
For such a person, a day does not pass or disappear; rather, it is transformed. What would have been another day lost becomes another brick in the eternal world he is building. Instead of death advancing with each passing day, eternity advances.
That is why the scroll and the sword descended intertwined. They are not merely symbols; they are the two directions in which every life is constantly moving. Every day, we either invest in what is eternal or consume what can never be reclaimed. Every sunrise brings us one step closer to the sword, or one step deeper into eternity. The question is not whether our life is advancing. The question is: toward which one?
A LIFE SHAPED BY THE SEFER
But what does such a life actually look like? What does it mean to live with the Sefer so completely that eternity, rather than death, advances each day?
Next week, 26 Av, is the yahrtzeit of the Satmar Rebbe, Rav Yoel Teitelbaum zt”l. His life offers a remarkable illustration of this idea. The following story captures what happens when a person is so deeply shaped by Torah that personal pride, honor, and resentment no longer define his decisions.
An editor of an Israeli journal who had publicly criticized and even ridiculed the Satmar Rebbe came to see him. He was distraught. His daughter was engaged to be married, but he lacked the money to purchase an apartment for the young couple.
The Rebbe listened to his predicament and gave him a substantial sum of money.
After the man left, someone quietly asked the Rebbe, “Don’t you know who that was?”
The Rebbe replied, “Of course I do.”
Then, after a brief pause, he instructed that the editor be called back.
When the man returned, the Rebbe gave him even more.
This idea is not beautiful because it connects an insight from the Alter of Kelm to a story about the Satmar Rebbe. It is beautiful because it reminds us that Torah has only one voice. The Alter of Kelm and the Satmar Rebbe came from worlds that could hardly have been more different, yet they taught the exact same lesson. It doesn’t matter where you’re from, what hat you wear, the length of your jacket, or the style of your peyos. The Torah’s instructions for life are the same for every Jew: hold tightly to the Sefer, for dear life, and let it shape your life.
A person who lives only for himself keeps score. A person who lives by the Sefer no longer asks, “What did he do to me?” He asks only, “What does the Torah ask of me now?” That is a life in which the Sefer has overcome the sword. •
