Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

There was one Friday when I was in YU, that I was traveling with a new friend of mine to his home for Shabbos. We boarded the A-train in Washington Heights, and arrived at Penn Station to take the LIRR to the Five Towns.

We bought our tickets and were about to head down to the platform, when a random stranger approached us. “Hey! You guys! Any chance you guys have a little cash to spare? I need to get a ticket home, and I don't have any money...”

I had heard these stories many times before. On the one hand, you feel bad. But on the other hand, it's tough to know if there's any truth to the story. Maybe it’s just a scam? Personally, I would always politely decline and walk away.

But to my surprise, my friend engaged. “How much do you need?” “Twenty bucks man, that's the ticket home.” My friend reached in his wallet, spent a couple of seconds looking for a bill. He pulled out a $50, and said “Any chance you've got change for a fifty?”

“Sure thing man.” And he reached into his pocket. But before he had a chance to do anything more, my friend started to laugh. “If you've got change for a fifty, then use that for the train and stop trying to scam me!”

Needless to say, he walked away quickly...

I’ve reflected on this story over the past years. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t necessarily a scam. That man did in fact need the money. But he didn’t need it for a train ticket. He needed it for something else, whatever that might be, so his train ticket was relegated down the ladder of priorities.

We make the same mistakes in our own lives. None of us have unlimited resources. We don't have infinite money, time, energy or attention.

Which means that we need to make choices. But admitting the choice is tough. How often do we find ourselves saying “I don't have time” or “I cant afford it”? How often do we tell ourselves “I can't do that... maybe in a few years.”

We're not honest with ourselves. We do have the time. But we're choosing not to prioritize this activity. We have money, but not for this.

This might seem like a trivial distinction, but consider that when we tell our spouse, children or Hashem that we don't have time, what we are really saying is “this isn't as important as...”

Sometimes, perhaps that is in fact true. But is there ever a time that it's not, and we simply failed to make the right choices?

This is the lesson that Hashem tells Moshe in our Parsha, as Rashi explains:

וידבר אלקים אל משה – דיבר אותו משפט על שהקשה לדבר ולומר: למה הרעותה לעם הזה (שמות ה׳:כ״ב).

Hashem took Moshe to task because he had spoken so harshly when he complained to Hashem “Why have You done such evil to this people”.

The Torah describes Hashem giving Moshe mussar for his challenge last Shabbos: “How have you done this to your people?”

But the Mozitzer Rebbe questions this Rashi. Surely Hashem is happy that Moshe is defending the Jewish people? Why criticize him for his love of Klal Yisrael? Is that not the most important quality of a leader? Was it not the reason that Moshe was chosen in the first place?

The critique then, is speaking to something much deeper.

Rashi says “על שהקשה לדבר“ – For his challenging speech. Hashem is not upset that Moshe is speaking harshly to Him on behalf of the Jewish people. Rather, he is taking Moshe to task because at the burning bush Moshe had said “I can’t go to Egypt, I’m not a good speaker!” But now, when he has a complaint, Moshe had no trouble speaking at all.

Effectively, Hashem is pushing Moshe: “When you didn’t want to go to Egypt, you couldn’t speak. But now that you have a complaint, some how, you found your voice and your problems are irrelevant?! Moshe, it’s time to realize that you always had a voice. I need you to use it to build, to grow, to develop, to bring freedom to the world. Don’t waste it on complaints and negativity.”

This is our challenge. No one has time – except for the things we really want to do. No one has energy or money – unless it's important. All this is to say “What do you really want to do? What are your priorities?”

It’s a lesson for life, but for many of us, it’s most important this week when many of us are taking some time off to spend with our families.

What does vacation look like? What do we do with our time? When we’re not rushing to carpools and doing homework, what do we do with our kids? What are the things we care enough to make happen?

Tefillah? Torah? Chessed? Healthy eating? Exercise? What does Shabbos look like when we’re not at home? Do our kids know that our Yiddishkeit is real when the neighbors aren’t looking?

It’s an important question to ask this Shabbos. Because perhaps if we can work on getting it right this week, these thoughts and feelings will begin to spill over to the rest of our lives.

When you have some time, when you have some money, when you have a voice... What do you really want to do with it?

By the time we enter Sefer Shemos, a lot has changed. Within a few pesukim of the death of Yaakov, his descendants, once venerated as the family of Yosef, have sunk to the bottom of society.

Reading the Chumash, perhaps the most abrupt change is that the protagonist at the beginning of the Sefer is Pharaoh, while Bnei Yisrael have been relegated to props in his story. Nothing is revealed about the lives, the pain and the stories of any particular Jews.

By the second Perek, we meet the baby who will become Moshe, but even as he is somehow saved, and raised in Pharaoh’s home, the Jewish people have been thoroughly crushed.

If we didn’t know the end of the story, we might think the Moshe experiment had failed. In his very first act of heroism – defending a Jewish life – he is discovered, and forced to flee.

The next time we meet him, Moshe is eighty years old, meaning that that at least sixty years had gone by. Generations of Jews have been swallowed into traumatic oblivion.

This feeling is one that everyone of us has encountered. The feeling the time has gone by, and nothing has changed, nothing has gotten better. It’s that feeling of that track of our lives is playing on repeat, and it’s not a song that we enjoy. The world is still continuing, but I’m not. I’m still in the same place.

Days, weeks, months and even years can slip into amorphous blobs of time, summarized by a sentence or two.

At the core, it’s the feeling of no longer being the protagonist in our own lives.

And then Hashem appears to Moshe in a burning bush, that didn't burn up. Sometimes, I wonder how long that bush had been burning. How many times Moshe had passed it, until the day he first looked up and noticed it.

In the deepest way, it is at this moment, that Moshe becomes the central character of his story. Somehow, in that encounter with the burning bush, Moshe learns how to take control of his own life and destiny.

R’ Chanoch Henoch of Alexander explained the metaphor and message of the the burning bush:

The s’neh represents Galus – a lowly state of exile in which nothing grows. There is no movement, no life, no fruit, no blossoms, no beauty. But even in such a place, Hashem’s presence can be felt. It burns deep in the heart of every Jew.

Sounds uplifting. It’s a beautiful message. But for the person suffering, it is totally unhelpful, so Moshe Rabbeinu is unsatisfied. If Hashem is burning in my heart, and in the heart of every Jew, why is the bush not being consumed? Why don't I feel inspired? Why do I not see Klal Yisrael burning with a fire of purpose? Why have so many days and years disappeared? How come so many Jews have faded into history?

Hashem, You’re telling me that even in the worst places You’re there? Why don’t I feel it? Where is that Holy fire now?

So Hashem explains: של נעליך מעל רגליך – Take the shoes off of your feet.

The Alexander Rebbe continues. נעל doesn't just mean a shoe, it means a Lock. רגל doesn't just mean a foot, it means a habit.

If you want to take control of your life, it starts with a pause. Stop for a moment. Take a day, or even a minute to think. Why am I living this way? What am I afraid of? Do I still have dreams? What’s holding me back?

In that simple act of mentally unlocking ourselves from our hamster wheel, we are able to find that fire again.

The Chafetz Chaim explains the rest of the Pasuk: כי המקום אשר אתה עומד עליו, אדמת קודש הוא – The place that you are standing is Holy ground.

You have escaped Mitzrayim. You're leading a comfortable life, tending your flock, raising your family. No-one is trying to kill you here. Things are fine. And your life has become irrelevant to the story of Jewish history.

It doesn’t have to be that way. But if you stop for a moment, if you take off your shoes, you will realize that the ground of which you stand is holy ground. Wherever you may be.

Hashem is burning inside of you as well, Moshe. Whatever ground you stand on, becomes a special place. Take off your shoes, stop running. If you can find the fire inside of you, you’ll be able to find it in the lives and stories of every Jew in Egypt. That’s how you free Klal Yisrael, and that’s how you free yourself.

Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz once wrote about the advice he received when suffering from encroaching burnout:

In my last letter to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, I told him I was holding down three full time jobs: scholarly writing, outreach work in Russia, and a network of schools in Israel. Since it all seemed like too much for one person, I asked him what to focus on. His answer was typical of him, that I should “continue to do all these things and to do more things and work even harder.”

It's a strange thing to tell a person that feels overwhelmed – you should take on more. But that was always the Rebbe's position. Both for himself and his Chassidim. This wasn’t some life-hack to somehow get more done. It was a re-orientation of the concept of working hard.

In contemporary society, we tend to take the opposite approach:“Work smarter, not harder.”

I was reflecting on this idea a little while ago when trying to convince one of my children to do something they didn't want to do. I found myself telling them “You can either do this the easy way or the hard way.” Then I caught myself wondering what exactly I meant. And the implications were as obvious as they were disturbing: easy means without fear or pain or punishment. Hard means all these things; fear, pain and punishment.

And then it hit me. Have we, as parents, as teachers, as society, been training ourselves and our children for generations, that easy is good and hard is bad? What message does that send when things get difficult?

It means that we do everything we can to avoid the the challenge. That challenges indicate some moral or personal failure. If things are tough, then I have done something wrong, so I need to do all that I can to make sure nothing is tough.

But perhaps the worst result of this approach is that when there is no way around it, when we are forced to endure some discomfort, we make the mistake of wasting our suffering.

In a recent interview, Arthur Brooks shared this insight:

Never waste your suffering. I ask my students in my happiness class to keep a failure and disappointment list. And each time something bad happens that feels like a loss or it feels like a disappointment or feels like a failure, you write it down and leave two lines blank.

And on the first line you write down, it's like that thing really bothered me. And then a month later, you come back to the first line that you left blank under it and write down, what did you learn? And then three months later, you come back to the second line and write down a good thing that happened because of that loss. And you're filling in the notebook.

And by the time you're going to a new thing that's really bugging you, really bothering you, you start to look forward to it because you're gonna be looking back at the knowledge and growth from past negative experiences and the benefit that actually has come from those negative experiences. Never, never, never waste your suffering.

In essence, this means reorienting ourselves to see difficulties as opportunities. It shifts our understanding of ourselves, our lives, and our challenges.

And perhaps it offers a new window into understanding all of Jewish history.

This Shabbos, Rashi tells us:

למה פרשה זה סתומה... שבקש לגלות את הקץ לבניו ונסתם ממנו

Why does this parsha begin without any break in the text? ... Because Yaakov wished to reveal the End of Days to his sons but it was concealed from him.

The simple reading of this Rashi is upsetting. The concealment comes as an unpleasant surprise to Yaakov, and a tragedy for his children. If only we have known... if only he could’ve told us... if only it didn’t have to be that way...

Not so, says the Yismach Yisrael:

Since Yaakov wanted to reveal to his children the world of Mashiach, of Geulah and of Redemption, by definition, Hashem needed to demonstrate to them that light comes from darkness.

Chazal explain: In that moment of darkness, Yaakov was worried about his children. Would they see this darkness a punishment, or an opportunity?

He invites them to consider: Why can’t we see through to the end? Perhaps we are unworthy?

To this, His children respond with a resounding “Sh’ma Yisrael...”. Listen, Yaakov, they say, we all believe in Hashem.

Two things are accomplished by this affirmation of Emunah:

1. It reframes the darkness as an opportunity. Even in this place, in this space, in this confusion, we can still declare that Hashem is present. This is not a punishment, it’s a challenge.

2. In the recognition that this darkness is an invitation for growth, we reveal that there is no darkness at all. The way forward is not in avoidance, but in engagement. The person that comes out the other side of this will be better than the one who entered.

All this is to say, if we want to experience redemption, personally and nationally, we need to get comfortable with the darkness that precedes it. Lean in to the difficultly; work smarter and harder.

This is Yaakov's final message to his children. You can do this the easy way or the hard way. I beg you: Do it the hard way. It’s the only way that you’ll grow. Don’t run from the darkness. Choose the challenge, do the difficult thing. Don’t waste your suffering.

Rav Aharon Kotler once got into the back of a cab and saw that in front of him attached to the seat was a small steering wheel. It even had a horn button and turned like a real steering wheel. When he questioned the driver about this unusual setup, the driver said that his son loved to be a “driver” just like his dad, so he specially attached that steering wheel for his son to feel like he was the one driving the car.

Rav Kotler commented on this how in life we think we are the one’s “driving” and directing our life but really Hashem is the driver, we just have the kid’s toy steering wheel to make it feel like we are in control, just like the driver’s son...

As the parsha opens, one can feel the palpable tension. Yehuda approaches the throne of the Egyptian demagogue and begins to plead, almost irrationally for the life of his brother Binyamin. In his mind, this is clearly Divine retribution for the pain he caused Yosef all those years ago. But giving up is simply not an option – he gave his word to Yaakov, and so all measures must be attempted.

Yehuda presents his clinching argument:

כִּי־אֵיךְ אֶעֱלֶה אֶל־אָבִי וְהַנַּעַר אֵינֶנּוּ אִתִּי – How can I possible return to my father, the child is not with me?

In that moment, Yehuda knows that his life, as he knows it, is over. Either the Egyptian viceroy will take him a slave, and he will never see his family again, or worse, he’ll keep Binyamin, and destroy the family entirely. Or perhaps, he might have them all executed. There is no happy end to this story. There is no logical, rational, or political way to resolve the situation.

And then, the most unlikely thing occurs, and in an instant, all the pain, confusion and terror dissolves. The same demagogue that has been persecuting the brothers for months, the cause of all their anguish; the man that has threatened their lives, families and future, is their brother!

In the moment that Yosef declared who he is, and his intentions, the curtain is lifted, and the brothers finally understand that they were never really in any danger. What they feel instead is overwhelming shame and humiliation.

Yosef consoles them:

וְעַתָּה לֹא־אַתֶּם שְׁלַחְתֶּם אֹתִי הֵנָּה כִּי הָאֱלֹקים – You didn’t send me here Hashem did. This is all part of a great and grand plan – through this, I can provide for you. I can sustain you, I can ensure that our family continues and prospers.

In this moment, the brothers finally understand the truth. That they were small pieces in a larger puzzle, and Yosef, too, understands that the suffering he endured was to bring about a world in which he could save his family.

With this perspective, Yosef now understands why he was in prison. It was all orchestrated so that he could meet the Sar HaMashkim. Why did Pharaoh have those dreams? So Yosef could rise to prominence. Why did the brothers sell him into slavery? So that he could save him.

For one moment, everything made sense and the truth was revealed.

The Mei HaShiloach explains that this is will how we feel when at the moment of Geulah when Hashem announces: אני ה׳:

כאשר יבוא העת לגלות כבוד מלכותו עלינו ולרחם שארית ישראל, כל ישראל יראו שהישועה היתה נגד פנינו, רק מצדנו נסתר זאת

When the time comes for Hashem to reveal the Honor of His Kingship to us, and to have mercy on the remnants of the Jewish people, all of Yisrael will see how the salvation was always right in front of us, only that it was hidden from our sight.

But the Meshech Chochma (מקץ מא:כא) explains that this was not the whole story. Why did there have to be a famine at all? Why did Pharoah have to have those dreams?

It all began as a result of the covenant that Hashem made with Avraham:

וַיֹּאמֶר לְאַבְרָם יָדֹעַ תֵּדַע כִּי־גֵר  יִהְיֶה זַרְעֲךָ בְּאֶרֶץ לֹא לָהֶם... וְאַחֲרֵי־כֵן יֵצְאוּ בִּרְכֻשׁ גָּדוֹל

And Hashem said to Abram, “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs... and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.”

This was a five hundred year process that began with Avraham. A story that necessitated the exile and slavery of the Jewish people, as well as their supernatural exodus, along with all the wealth of Egypt. For this to take place, Egypt needed to be wealthy, and the children of Avraham needed to be slaves there. Yosef’s story was part of this process.

But we can ask the question even further – why did we need to be slaves? Why did we need to exit with wealth? Because we are to become a מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ – a Kingdom of Kohanim, a transcendent nation. We’re supposed to change the world. To achieve this, we would need a dual legacy: One that intimately understands the pain of human suffering, paired with overwhelming wealth to actually make a difference. These two ingredients would be needed to change the world according to Ratzon Hashem. All of Bereishis and Shemos are marching to this great destiny.

Truthfully, all of Jewish history is coalescing to this point.

This is the grand truth. The one that we don’t get to see while it is still unfolding. This is the truth that we’ll finally understand when the great curtain of history is lifted, and we see the Director backstage.

But the message of our Parsha is that there is always a greater truth, a deeper truth. It’s a truth that we know, but don’t feel. We know that everything is part of Hashem’s ultimate plan, we just don’t know how.

And thus the Torah charges us: Live according to the Big Truth, be a part of the Big Story. Yosef’s revelation teaches us that whenever anything adds up, it’s a small piece of the larger plan. May we merit to find our place within it.

A few weeks ago, I was speaking with an old friend who made Aliyah many years ago. He was describing the current trauma so many Israel’s are experiencing and the challenges of growing up in a war zone. But, as he noted, despited all that, or perhaps because of it, kids in Israel believe in their purpose.

The TikTok generation of chayalim has proven themselves to be lions on the the battlefield; while their teenage siblings have mobilized to volunteer meals, support and social media campiagning.

It worries me that while all of this is going on in Israel, most of us, and our kids, are standing on the sidelines. Perhaps, there is a widening gap between the next generation of Israeli and Americans.

I know that I’m not alone in this concern. It’s a conversation that we’ve all been having for the past two years (at least).

As we enter the final days of Chanukah, I’d like to reflect on this question from the standpoint of a famous and central dispute of the Gemara: What is the mitzvah of lighting Neiros Chanukah? Are we required to actively light the Ner (הדלקה עושה מצוה) or is the essence of the mitzvah in its proper placement (הנחה עושה מצוה)?

The significance of this question is not simply in the realm of Halacha. It extends to our identity as Jews in a world teetering on the brink of Redemption.

The question is as simple as it is profound: Is our obligation to ensure that we are in the right place at the right time? Or are we obliged to kindle the fire of Yiddishkeit ourselves?

There was a time, perhaps, that the right way to ensure Jewish survival and even success was making sure that we and our children were in the right place at the right time. There were generations of ensuring that the walls of the Shtetls and Ghettos kept us in and the world out. In those sacred enclaves, the world was challenging and treacherous, but clear. “They” might kill us in this world, but we will forever be safe in the world to come.

But little by little the walls have come down. And today, there are none at all. We and our children are living in a world where it is impossible to remain insular. Even if we desperately wanted and tried to, we cannot shield ourselves from the constant onslaught of western culture. Especially as our whole lives have transitioned to online-everything.

Thus the Halacha is that it is not enough to ensure the proper placement of the Neiros. We pasken הדלקה עושה מצוה – The mitzvah is to kindle the fire.

I'd like to ask your forgiveness in advance. This is not an attack on you or your family. But it seems clear to me that despite placing ourselves in wonderful communities, despite enrolling our children in stelar institutions of Torah, Mitzvos and Derech Eretz, we are not always happy with the outcome. We don't always feel as if the return on our investment meets our expectations. This is true for families everywhere; Israel and Chutz La’artetz.

I look at my students, my friends and relatives, who grew up in worlds similar to our own, and who have fallen off to one side or the other. Some have abandoned Torah and mitzvos, whilst others have fled to less nuanced, more insular communities.

I would like to humbly suggest that root of this discontent stems from attempting to live in a world in which proper placement is all it takes to live a live of mitzvos and meaning.

It's simply not enough. It is high time we learn to light the fire ourselves.

The Good News is That We're Ahead of the Curve

We have much to be thankful for. Our Rabbonim have been teaching us, leading us, paskening for us and training us to contend with worlds of tension. We are not people who shy away from modernity. We are not afraid of the halls of academia. We are students and teachers of the arts and sciences.

In the deepest way, we are the students of Yosef HaTzadik; the first Jew who lived outside of his bubble.

His greatness, of course, was that despite his lifetime of displacement, he was always on fire for Yiddishkeit. So much so, that for all generations, we asks Hashem to make our children like his.

How did he do it?

How To Survive Betrayal

The Sforno (פרק לז) explains that Yaakov had always given Yosef greater responsibilities than his brothers, recognizing that there was a certain greatness to him. Yaakov understood that Yosef alone was capable of ensuring that the legacy of Avraham and Yitzchak would eventually blossomed into a sovereign nation settled in the land. To that end, Yaakov invested in Yosef, pouring his heart, soul and time into his development. The goal of which was to raised not just another אב, whose children would continue the legacy, but a מלך, a king over the fledgling Jewish nation. Yosef shared these aspirations, and in the dreams of his youth, he saw himself as being that great leader, amongst the sheaves of wheat on earth, and the stars of the heavens above.

But when Yosef found himself being hauled out of that pit, being sold into slavery by his brothers, his world effective ends. Not only Yosef's world, Yaakov's as well. His hopes for being the father of the sovereign nation are dashed, and he retreats into himself, mourning his failure to bring the light of Hashem into this world through his children. Without Yosef, he is lost and hopeless – ארד על בני אבל שאולה.

But as the Torah turns its attention to Yosef, we ask, what will become of this leader with no-one to lead, this מלך בלא עם? What will be of this dreamer with no one to populate his dreams?

Betrayed by his own family, Yosef realizes that his brothers cannot be the future of the Jewish people. Which leaves him with only question: Can he be the next of the Avos? Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov and... Yosef?

Yosef is left asking himself if all of Yiddishkeit can start again from him. At least in his mind, once Yaakov leaves this world, Yosef is the last Jew on earth. The last person loyal to the tradition of Avraham, the bris with Hashem. And Yosef is just a teenager; with the weight of the future of Judaism and indeed, humanity, resting on his shoulders.

The Tipping Point

But for Yosef, all of these overwhelming complexities, enormous responsibilities, and awesome potential comes into question in one moment of one day. Will he succumb to the seduction of Potifar's wife?

This moment crystallizes all of the internal tension that he feels, the questions of his capacity to relaunch a Jewish people in exile, the questions of his fortitude as a father of the nation. All this comes to the fore in this one moment. If he can face his own challenges, he can revive and restore Yiddishkeit. And if he not.... How does Yosef succeed?

We all know the famous Medrash: ראה דמות דיוקנו של אביו – he saw the face of his father. But the Satmar Rebbe explains much further, he saw the face of his father within himself. He realized at that moment that just like Yaakov had to fight his angel of the night, so too, Yosef did as well.

In that moment, he found his fire. He was no longer a Jew. Yosef was Judaism itself. In him, was the mission and vision of bringing the Ribono Shel Olam in the world. The purpose of creation and humanity rested with him. It would be his failure or success that moved the world forward or held it back.

He found his little jar of oil. He began to live a life on fire. Yosef lives his life in Egypt charged with universal purpose. From that moment on, wherever he goes, he is holding Hashem's hand.

Do we feel that sense of mission? It's not about stocks, portfolios, SATs, promotions, or politics. It's a fire of knowing, that the Master of All World wants me here right now to do something that only I can do.

Living with this fire means that Davening is not a ritual, it's a privilege. Learning is not a chore, it's the manual for success. Chesed and tzedaka are the reasons for living.

For Yosef HaTzadik, placement is irrelevant as long as he is on fire. This is the Modern Orthodoxy that we need to live. This is the Hashkafa we need to emulate and educate. It's the deep knowledge that we are Yiddiskeit. And we can be Yiddiskeit no matter where or when we may be.

Rebbe Noson of Breslov was once asked what the difference is between a person who is on fire with Yiddiskeit, and one who isn't. Don't they both keep the same mitzvos? He answered: Of course. But it's the exactly the same as the difference between a piece of warm kugel and cold kugel.

Hashem should help us that the kugels we eat and serve should be delicious. He should help us to kindle the flame; to be warm Jews no matter where or when we are, until we are zoche to bring the fire home to Yerushalayim.

Each day as we daven, we invoke the memory of the Avos: Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov. Each one in their own right is an Av – a father of the Jewish people. Each one had their own struggle, their own challenge, their own perspective and the own middah.

But each of the Avos is exactly that – an Av. A parent. The Torah describes little, or nothing of their childhood. Avraham is already a grown man by the time Hashem says “Lech L'cha.” Yitzchak is thirty-seven years old at the Akeida. And while Yaakov is indeed 15 when he purchases his birthright from Esav, and that this event is recorded in the Torah, this one verse is the only narrative of Yaakov's teenage years. The next time we meet Yaakov is at the age of sixty, when he steals the brachos that Yitzchak intends for Esav.

The very first Jew to be identified as a child, is Yosef:

אֵלֶּה  תֹּלְדוֹת יַעֲקֹב יוֹסֵף בֶּן־שְׁבַע־עֶשְׂרֵה שָׁנָה הָיָה רֹעֶה אֶת־אֶחָיו בַּצֹּאן וְהוּא נַעַר

These are the generations of Jacob. Joseph, being seventeen years old, was tending the flock with his brethren, being still a youth...

We are introduced to Yosef, a seventeen year old young man. The favorite child of his father, and, paradigmatically, הוּא נַעַר. He's is a child.

Contrast this with Yaakov and Esav, one generation earlier. Immediately after telling us of the birth of Yaakov and Esav: The children grew up – וַיִּגְדְּלוּ הַנְּעָרִים. Very rapidly, they transcend “na'ar”. וַיְהִי עֵשָׂו אִישׁ יֹדֵעַ צַיִד אִישׁ שָׂדֶה וְיַעֲקֹב אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים – Esav was a hunter, a man of the field, and Yaakov was a wholesome man, dwelling in the tents. No longer are they young; each one is now an “ish.”

Yosef is still very much a na'ar when we meet him. Rashi quotes the Medrash and comments that Yosef did childish things:

והוא נער – שהיה עושה מעשה נערות, מתקן בשערו, משמש בעיניו, כדי שיהא נראה יפה.

His actions were childish: he dressed his hair, he touched up his eyes so that he should appear good-looking (Genesis Rabbah 84:7).

One can easily imagine how this affected his brothers. In a world that values growing up quickly, taking responsibility for the Jewish people and the future of the world, Yosef's childishness comes off as immature.

Consider that Avraham Avinu is crowned with ואברהם זקן – Avraham became old. On this, Rav Hirsch explains:

הזקן הוא בעל ההכרה הבשלה, בנגוד לנער, המנער בקלות את כל הרשמים שקבל מהחוץ.

He who is old is one who had a full understanding. In contradistinction to a youth, who is easily stirred by external stimuli.

Yosef epitomizes the opposite of זקנה – of age and of wisdom. But this is the least of the issues between Yosef and his brothers.

Yosef is a dreamer, like his father Yaakov before him, who dreamed of the ladder rising to the heavens. But quite unlike Yaakov, who is an observer in his dreams, Yosef is the protagonist. In Yosef’s dreams, he is gathering grain. He is at the center of the circle, surrounded by the sun, moon and stars.

His visions of grandeur and self importance are coupled with his immaturity. In the eyes of his brothers, he is little more than a pampered, narcissistic child, who is out of touch with the reality of being a part of the Am Segulah – the Nation that would shape human destiny. He leads a life of privilege, spending his time on his education with Yaakov, and his physical appearance.

Living in Yosef's World

There are many similarities between Yosef's live and the life of many contemporary Jewish teens and young adults today. He lives with a gnawing existential loneliness, and is faced with challenges far beyond his ancestors.

Economically: His career veers sharply from the stability his predecessors enjoyed (they were always shepherds). Yosef is a slave, a servant, a prisoner, an interpreter of dreams, economist, and eventually a politician and ruler.

Socially: Yosef spends most of his life surrounded by people whose beliefs are antithetical to his own. He dreams of greatness, yet his deepest desire is to impact the world positivity, with innovation and leadership.

Morally: Like many in generation, Yosef is challenged with sexual temptation, and needs to contend with emotions of abandonment and the desire for revenge.

The Meaning of נער

Despite these challenges, all of Yosef's dreams eventually come to fruition. The question we must address is how does Yosef succeed? How does he transcend being a נער, or perhaps, how does he utilize it? Is there a secret ingredient that makes Yosef's life a success, and if so, how can we emulate him?

The answer lies in understanding that Yosef's childishness is not one dimensional. The Medrash Tanchuma (Vayeshev 20) explains:

שלש מדות היו בו, בן תורה, ונביא, ואת אחיו מכלכל, בן תורה דכתיב כי בן זקונים הוא לו, וכתיב שאל אביך ויגדך זקניך ויאמרו לך. ומנין שהוא נביא, שנאמר והוא נער את בני בלהה וגו', וכתיב ומשרתו יהושע בן נון נער, וכתיב ויגדל הנער שמואל, ומנין שהוא זן את אחיו, שנאמר ועתה אל תיראו, אנכי אכלכל אתכם

Yosef had three attributes: He was a Ben Torah, a Prophet, and a Provider for his brothers... How do you know he was a prophet? He is referred to as נער. And both Yehoshua, and Shmuel are called נער as well.

The Medrash is telling us that in his being a נער – within his childishness – is his capacity for prophecy and greatness!

How does one contend with these conflicting Medrashim? Was Yosef a self-centered child? Or a Ben Torah, a Prophet, and a Provider for his Brothers? And how can both notions be communicated in the word נער?

Rav Gedalya Shor in Ohr Gedalyahu argues (based on the Zohar and Rabbineu Bachya) that נער is a complex word. One the one hand, it most certainly connotes immaturity. But on the other, it means התנערי מעפר קומי – To wake up from the ashes.

The Depths of Childhood

To be a child is to constantly balance the nativity of childishness with התנערי – the excitement of possibility. The capacity to build, to grow, to dream, to achieve and to achieve prophecy. It is through Yosef that Klal Yisrael is introduced to the importance childhood.

This is the not the approach of the brothers, or of the Avos. But Yosef disagrees. He is a not an Av, he is a na'ar. He teaches us that it is essential to dream, and to cultivate the children within ourselves (and indeed, give us the tools to to raise our own children.) He teaches us that growing up should not mean giving up.

The Magid of Mezritch would explain that there are three things he learned from children:

• They are always happy.
• When they need something they cry out. They're not ashamed to ask for help.
• They're always going somewhere. Children don't walk – they run.

Yaakov's Bracha

But how does one harness the passion, excitement and opportunity without falling off the bandwagon. How should we channel it?

At the end of his life, Yaakov calls Yosef in order to give him a Bracha – one that we echo to our children:

המלאך הגואל אותי מכל רע יברך את הנערים – May the angel that protected me, protect these naarim – these children.

The Sfas Emes explains:

שנתן ברכה להתפשטות כחו של יוסף, והנערים הוא התעוררות החיות שבעולם, והכלל כי שורש החיות בא מיוסף

Yaakov gave them the Bracha to continue Yosef's power. Children are those that awaken and provide life to the world. And the root of this comes from Yosef.

Yaakov and Yosef both understand, for a נער to succeed, they need protection. Who provides that protection? Exactly the same מלאך that has protected us throughout the ages.

The passionate growth that Yosef brings to the world is safe-guarded by the continuous connection to the core values of Yiddishkeit. That's the anchor to the excitement of innovation.

Ultimately, that's the tool box that we need to cultivate for ourselves, that we need to develop for our children.

Be'ezras Hashem, that same Malach should protect our dreams, our goals, our aspirations and our children.

I’m sitting on the plane on the way back from Israel after a wonderful, all too short trip.

It’s been two years since the last time I was in Israel. That trip was a barely a month after October 7th. That time, when I left, the walkway to the departure gates was lined with pictures of hostages. At that point, we still didn’t know who was taken hostage, and who was murdered. Many of those faces were still “missing.”The streets of Yerushalayim were quiet. The hotels packed with refugees.

This time, everything had changed. It feels weird to write this, but were it not for the fact that I know October 7th happened, I wouldn’t have learned about it walking through Yerushalayim or Tel Aviv.

Sure, there are still some faded signs zip-tied to light poles and fences. It’ll be some time before the political slogans graffitied onto underpasses are painted over. But by all standards, the country has moved on.

Perhaps the only truly noticeable effect of these two years of war has been the increase in the wounded. The guy sipping his coffee by the beach with a full cast on his right leg. The man crossing the street was missing his left arm. And yet, they are not shutting themselves out the world. Even these heroes are desperate for “normal”.

Of course, we shouldn’t be so coarse as to ignore the reality that much of the country is still suffering from unimaginable trauma. Behind closed doors, families are struggling. Couples are in crisis, and kids have been forced to fend for themselves as their parents juggled month after month of miluim.

But I stood humbled as my niece and her friends danced for four hours, celebrating her bat mitzvah. They’ve spend the past two years running in and out of shelters. But they are not looking for sympathy. Neither are any of their parents.

This generation has finally learned that there never be any sympathy. Not from the news, not from the world. No one is coming to save them. No one cares. From a sheer lack of alternatives, Israelis – especially kids – have developed a newfound, nonchalant, iron clad resilience.

As a country, they are no longer afraid of the worst, because the worst has already happened: The promise of “Never Again” was broken on October 7th. And yet, despite all that, the country still stands. It it safer and more more prosperous than ever before.

That’s not to say Israelis are not concerned about anything; they certainly are worried. But it’s not about themselves. I was asked repeatedly how things were going for Jews in Florida, and in the US in general. “Are you seeing an uptick in anti-semitism?” “When are you Making Aliyah?” “Are people leaving New York?” “Are they moving to Boca?”

Israel is currently preparing for the possibility of massive waves of Aliyah from around the world.

Beyond the pain, the trauma, the pain, the confusion and the sadness, the country is infused with a deep and unshakable confidence. It’s hard-won and far from frivolous – everyone knows that something terrible could happen to anyone. But this is a different kind of confidence. It’s faith in Klal Yisrael and our future in Eretz Yisrael. So long as we keep doing what we’re doing, and keep fighting for it, we’ll be ok.

This confidence not only national. It is shared by every sector of Israel independently; despite the glaring contradictions and deep tensions between them.

Charedim in Bnei Brak are confident that their way of life will continue and this war will not end the Olam HaTorah they have built for the past century. Secular Jews in Tel Aviv are confident that the western democracy they have championed will remain just so. The Dati LeUmi communities in Yehuda v’Shomron are likewise not worried that the dream of Geulah through settling the land will fade.

Everyone knows that so long as they are willing to be moser nefesh, nothing can stop them; and they are all willing.

In the deepest way, Klal Yisrael is imbued with a profound resignation to the inevitability of our future. Whatever that future might hold, however it might materialize, whoever is in the driver’s seat, it is unstoppable.

By comparison, this confidence is all but absent in American discourse. People in the US feel as if the country is splitting apart at the seams. The right/left divide feels insurmountable, and the threats from inside and outside are making people feel like the US has peaked.

From conversations with friends and colleagues in the UK, Europe and South Africa, this feeling is spreading throughout the West.

Perhaps it is true, perhaps not; I am not a prophet. But I can say with certainty that no one in Israel feels like Klal Yisrael has peaked. If anything, we’re just getting started.

Ever so cautiously, Klal Yisrael is escaping victimhood. Whether by choice or a lack thereof, we are rising above our fears, our reliances and dependencies.

Rav Kook (אורות ישראל פרק ב:ו) writes that each of us, as individuals can draw from the national treasure trove of strength: ע”י חוט קטן זה מרגיש היחיד את היופי הנעלה שיש בכללות האומה – There is a thread through which every Jew can feel the transcendent beauty within the collective of our nation.

What we are witnessing and experiencing in our generation, is Hashem’s answer the great Tefillah of Yaakov Avinu:

הַצִּילֵנִי נָא מִיַּד אָחִי מִיַּד עֵשָׂו כִּי־יָרֵא אָנֹכִי אֹתוֹ -Save me from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esav, because I am afraid of him.

The Imrei Pinchas explains: Yaakov felt an overwhelming fear, and that feeling itself made him afraid. For a person is only afraid of those things that have power over them. So Yaakov prayed: Hashem, I need You to save me, because my fear tells me that I have what to be afraid of.

We are privileged to see a generation of Klal Yisrael who is no longer afraid of the Esavs of the world, but here in lies our next challenge.

If Hashem has brought us to this place of national, communal and personal confidence, our job is rediscover an authentic sense of Yiras Shamayim. We need to fear wasting the incredible brachos Hashem has gifted our generation. We need to be concerned that we are spending our resources and time on meaninglessness...

Our enemies has hoped that October 7th was the beginning of the end of Klal Yisrael. If anything, it was the end of the beginning. A new chapter is just getting started. It’s time we all stop fearing for our lives and start living with purpose.

Around this time of year, unrelentingly, the same event unfolds almost daily: A random car or truck pulls up by your driveway. The bell rings. A package is flung at the front door. You look around wondering “did anyone order anything?” More often than not, you tear open the tape only to discover “Oh yeah, that was mine...”

The ubiquity of delivery trucks everywhere tells me that I’m not alone, in this experience, and my guess is that we’re not the only family suffering from some Amazon-induced-amnesia.

And this week, it only gets worse.

With all due respect to the upcoming festival of gratitude, somehow, Thanksgiving has remained confined to a single day. The Yom Tov of Black Friday, however, seems to have spread its wings for weeks and weeks, both before and after.

Of course, there are obvious financial issues with our behavior: It’s far too easy to spend money. The ease with which we can order, pay and receive almost anything is as amazing as it is frightening.

This is no accident. It’s well known that teams of the best psychologists, designers and software engineers are working tirelessly to hijack our brains. User interfaces are designed to remove all friction from the checkout process. Products are priced dynamically, and ads are tailored to present us with ever personalized “deals”.

But knowing these truths isn’t enough to combat their effects. It takes diligence and vigilance to avoid spending our hard earned money on trivial, forgettable non-essentials.

Nevertheless, despite constantly milking our wallets, this is not the biggest scam of modern consumerism. The far greater issue is that it robs us of regular, subtle human connection.

We live in a world where it is possible to work from home, order food to our doors, get our groceries delivered, pay our bills and live entirely online without interacting with another person.

A friend of mine related that he went to visit a cousin of his towards the end of COVID. This cousin greeted him at the front door, said “hello”, and then gasped when he realized it was the first time he had hear his own voice in months. He had quite literally lived without speaking to another human being. Texting, emails and apps had stolen that from him without notice or warning.

Of course, this example is extreme. And while most of us are not that secluded, convenient consumerism has removed the little hints of humanity we all know and love. A smile for the guy at the check out counter. A “good morning” from the lady at the bank. As these interactions are phased out, we risk making every encounter a high-stakes, high-pressure meeting. What will happen to eye contact and facial expressions? What will happen to the genuine concern that can only be shared in the context of regular micro-engagements? Will anyone be able to ask “you don’t look yourself today... is everything ok?”

Please don’t misunderstand me – I also love the ability to download a box of Cheerios at 1am, knowing that my kids will be eating breakfast a few hours later. But the jump from that ease to total human avoidance is far too easy, especially as people get older.

If we’re not careful, this drive for convenience will scam us out of the single most valuable thing we have: Each other.

This is not my chiddush. It’s central to the narrative of the Avos and of Sefer Bereishis as a whole.

Chazal calculate that Yaakov spend fourteen years leaning in the Yeshiva of Shem and Ever after fleeing from Esav. Fascinatingly, the Torah does not transmit the lessons that he learned there, or any of the Torah he learned from Yitzchak. Indeed, even the fact of his enrollment in the Yeshiva is learned from calculations and hints.

Where does the Torah focus? Pasuk after pasuk describes Yaakov’s relationship with the people in his life. Chapters are dedicated to the tensions between Rachel and Leah, naming and raising children, and his business dealings with Lavan. Over and over again, the Torah draws our attention to personal and interpersonal challenges, and it is from these stories that Chazal glean volumes of multilayered wisdom and insight.

The Ohev Yisrael (ויצא ד”ה תוכחת מוסר גדול) writes:

וצא ולמד מאבותינו הק' ... ואיך התורה מספרת לנו הליכת יעקב מבאר שבע ובאיזה מקום ישן והדיבורים שדיבר עם רחל בת זוגו ואיך שנשק אות' ואיך שהיה רועה את צאן לבן. ותחבולתיו שעשה המקלות. וכיוצא באלו. הלא מזה מוכח שכל מעשיהם מקטן ועד גדול היה הכל רק בהשכל ודיעה מיושבת בחכמת אלקות.

Go and learn from our ancestors and see... How the Torah describes Yaakov traveling to Beer Sheva, where he slept, what he said to Rachel. How he kissed her. How he tended the sheep of Lavan, and his dealings with sticks. You will see that all of his activities, from small to great, were performed with understanding, calm thought and Godly wisdom...

That’s the kind of life Hashem wants us to lead. Lives of action, of engagement, of relationships and interactions. In that space, Hashem asks us to find Him, to find ourselves and to find each other.

If Hashem was writing our story, the story of each of our days, it seems that the impulse purchases wouldn’t make the cut in the Torah of our generation. But the trip to the grocery store might well be included. That’s the story with the potential to learn a lesson, help another person or overcome some challenge. That’s the life Hashem is inviting us to live. Don’t get scammed out of it.

The Medrash (תנחמא ויקהל א) teaches us:

אַתְּ מוֹצֵא שְׁלֹשָׁה שֵׁמוֹת נִקְרְאוּ לוֹ לְאָדָם, אֶחָד מַה שֶּׁקּוֹרְאִים לוֹ אָבִיו וְאִמּוֹ, וְאֶחָד מַה שֶּׁקּוֹרְאִין לוֹ בְּנֵי אָדָם, וְאֶחָד מַה שֶּׁקּוֹנֶה הוּא לְעַצְמוֹ. טוֹב מִכֻּלָּן מַה שֶּׁקּוֹנֶה הוּא לְעַצְמוֹ.

You find that a man is known by three names: the name by which his father and mother call him, the name by which other men call him, and the one he earns for himself. The most important name is the one he earns for himself.

This drama plays itself out throughout Sefer Bereishis, in the naming of people and places. Noach provides comfort. Avram becomes Avraham – a father of many nations. Yitzchak is named for the laughter of his parents.

By far, however, the strangest name given in the Torah occurs this Shabbos. To the best of my knowledge, we meet a person named for a food. Or rather, the color of a food.

Esav returns home, tired and hungry. Chazal tell us that this was the funeral of Avraham, and Yaakov and Esav were teenagers – fifteen years old. Esav sees the red lentil soup that Yaakov has prepared and demands הַלְעִיטֵנִי נָא מִן־הָאָדֹם הָאָדֹם הַזֶּה – Give me that red stuff!

Then comes the strange end of the pasuk – עַל־כֵּן קָרָא־שְׁמוֹ אֱדוֹם – So he called his name Edom. A person named for a food?! But the name stuck. It is the nation of Edom, rather than Esav that arises.

Yaakov uses this opportunity to bargain Esav for his birthright, to which Esav replies:

הִנֵּה אָנֹכִי הוֹלֵךְ לָמוּת וְלָמָּה־זֶּה לִי בְּכֹרָה – I am going to die. Why would I need a birthright?

This exchange would set the stage for the relationship between these brothers for years to come, and indeed for all of history. But Chazal, however, see in this story, a hidden narrative that seems a little unfair:

The Gemara (Bava Basra 16b) explains:

אמר רבי יוחנן חמש עבירות עבר אותו רשע באותו היום בא על נערה מאורסה והרג את הנפש וכפר בעיקר וכפר בתחיית המתים ושט את הבכורה בא על נערה מאורסה

Rabbi Yochanan says: That wicked Esau committed five transgressions on that day that Avraham died: He engaged in relations with a betrothed girl, he murdered a person, he denied the principle of God’s existence, he denied resurrection of the dead, and he despised the birthright.

That’s a heavy statement. I’ve taught some rough teens, and being fifteen is not a simple stage of life. But even for the most challenging of young men, that’s an impressive itinerary for one day of sinning. How could we possibly understand such behavior?

A deeper question is to ask is what inspired Rabbi Yochanan to read these crimes into a seemingly more innocent episode.

Perhaps the solution to this enigma lies in the curious name change in the story: עַל־כֵּן קָרָא־שְׁמוֹ אֱדוֹם – So he called his name Edom.

Who called Esav Edom? There were only two people present. How did the name stick? The Daas Zekeinim of the Baalei HaTosfos explain: Esav called himself Edom.

On that day, Esav, whose name means “complete man”, decided that his identity was now Edom – the red guy. Rabbeinu Bachaya explains: “Since my hair is red and my land is red... I guess the red food should be mine as well. I’ll take it.”

Rabbi Yochanan is teaching us that the roots of moral and ethical decay are not based in desire and temptation. Of course, people are fallible and flawed. But society does not crumble from those who cannot control there Yetzer Hara. Rather, Rabbi Yochanan explains: the cruelest evils in the world are perpetrated by those who willfully neglect nuance. If all “red things” are the same, no further thinking is needed.

At it worst, this is the tendency to reinterpret all facts to suit a narrative. Without subtly and nuance there is no hope for reexamination.

Of course, this is not just an issue that Esav faced. We all make generalizations that fit our agendas. We ignore details and brush over subtleties that should affect our decisions and behaviors. We miss the details, because it’s easier, but in doing so, we miss out on the most important parts of life.

This is Esav’s failure; and this is how we can understand Rabbi Yochanan: There are two ways to live life: either everything is important, or nothing is important.

The Chafetz Chaim explains that this also accounts for Esav’s statement: “I’m going to die – why do I need a birthright?!” For tzadikim, the thought of death, a reminder of the temporality and fragility of life spurs them to action. The knowledge of our mortality induces a sense of urgency – carpe die.

But a rasha is someone for whom the knowledge of mortality serves only to convince them that nothing is worthwhile. And if nothing is meaningful, then who cares?

The Torah is teaching us here: If all you can see is what lies on the surface, you’ve already missed out on your birthright.

In a world that has lost it’s sense of nuance, subtleties are disregarded, and unless something is painted in red, we fail to notice it.

Yaakov, on the other hand, is named for one who grabs onto the heal – מצוות שאדם דש בעקביו – The opportunities that others disregard. For Yaakov, everything is meaningful.

His name, too, is later changed; to Yisrael. One who fights with God and Men and prevails. But he never loses his name Yaakov.

It is this trajectory that makes us Jews. The secret to our success lies in our ability to see beyond, within, and around. And in doing so, to learn to value everything.

It’s no secret that I love stories, particularly, Jewish stories. And amongst my greatest joys as a father, is that my my kids seem to love them too.

However, there is a particular genre of story which is in vogue at the moment, and for a while, I’ve been bothered by it. There is there’s something a little unsettling about “the Hashgacha Pratis story”.

It hit me last week, erev Shabbos. The Rebbetzin called me, sending me on a mission to pick up a last minute item at the Grove. With two of the kids in the car, and not a lot of time, we arrived at the Grove parking lot. I had already pre-empted my kids that this was a very quick trip. No candy, no wandering around the store. In. Out. Done.

I had done everything in my power... But the parking lot is in the hands of Hashem.

Lo and behold, as we pulled in, a car right in front of the store pulled out. Miraculously, no one was waiting for the spot. In less than ten seconds, mission accomplished. It felt like the single quickest parking event in the history of Boca Raton.

One of my kids turned to me, “Abba, that was really lucky! ... No wait! It’s Hashgacha Pratis!”

As a father, that made me so happy. We all pray that that our children recognize and realize Hashem’s Hand in their lives. But this is not what Hashgach Pratis means.

Don’t get me wrong. These stories are often quite beautiful, contemporary, relevant, meaningful and true. But on the deepest level, we’re missing the point, and dangerously so.

Hashem’s divine attention in our lives is not only when things go swimmingly; He is just as present making things difficult.

To illustrate, let’s revisit Eliezer and Rivka at the well, as Rashi teaches us:

וירץ העבד לקראתה: לְפִי שֶׁרָאָה שֶׁעָלוּ הַמַּיִם לִקְרָאתָהּ

The servant ran toward her — because he saw that the waters rose in the well when she approached it (Genesis Rabbah 60:5).

Rivka, as we know, acquiesces to Eliezer request, graciously offering to draw water for this stranger and his caravan of camels.

But the Ramban (כד:יז) makes a unsettling observation:

וְנַעֲשָׂה לָהּ הַנֵּס בַּפַּעַם הָרִאשׁוֹנָה, כִּי אַחֲרֵי כֵן כָּתוּב “וַתִּשְׁאַב” – This miracle happened to her only the first time for afterwards it is written, “and she drew”.

Imagine that you’re Rivka. As you approach the well, the waters miraculously rise to meet you. Green lights all the way. Life is great. You see a traveller in need, so you stop, and offer to help.

And precisely at that moment, the miracles end. The water recedes to the bottom of the well. Now it’s just you, alone to draw water, lifting jug after jug for some random stranger, exhausting your time and energy. Where’s the Hashgacha Pratis here? What happened to Hashem’s Hand?

Perhaps Hashem doesn’t want her to draw this water for this man? Perhaps this is Hashem’s silent protest? Perhaps Rivka is no longer worthy of this miracle?

The Kedushas Levi (חיי שרה ד”ה וירץ העבד לקראתה) explains:

מה שאין כן בפעם שניה שכוונתה היה לגמול חסד להשקות הגמלים של אליעזר עבד אברהם לא עלו המים לקראתה, שכשאדם עושה מצוה יותר נחשב לעשות פעולה שבעשותו פעולה לשם מצוה נחשב לו יותר למצוה והבן:

...The second time, when she did an act of ‎kindness to others, Hashem withheld His ‎assistance, because the mitzvah is far greater when effort is expended in it’s performance.

When the miracles end, and life get hard, there are two ways of looking at the situation. Option one: we can conclude that Hashem has withdrawn because doesn’t want to be part of this. Or, option two: we can conclude that this is exactly what Hashem wants us to be working on ourselves.

It’s that second option that gets to the root of Hashgacha Pratis.

To become a mother of the Jewish people, Rivka will need to grow even greater and even stronger in her chessed and hachnasas orchim. And we all know that miracles don’t make us stronger.

All this is to say, that perhaps the greater Hashgacha Pratis would’ve been driving around the parking lot at the Grove for fifteen minutes, learning how to remain calm when time is short and drivers are infuriating.

The Avoda of seeing Hashem’s Hashgacha in our lives should not be limited to gratitude when things are great. Far and beyond, Hashem is inviting us to grow while He cheers from the sidelines.