Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

For as long as I can remember, music has been a big part of my life, and a big part of my day. And judging by the questions that I get asked during Sefira, I think it’s safe to assume that we are all listening to far more music than ever before.

At any given moment, many of us will have music playing in the background; while working, or learning. Not to mention the multiple playlists we’ve set up for working out, for carpools, roadtrips and parties.

Is all of this music forbidden? Is acappella allowed?

Broadly speaking, there are two schools of thought as to why we don’t listen to music during these times of the year:

1. Rav Moshe Feinstein: The Rambam holds that all music was categorically forbidden at all times since the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash. Practically, many of the other Rishonim limit this restriction to hearing musical instruments outside of a Seudas Mitzvah, and/or acappella singing at parties. However, during the times of the year when we focus on national mourning, it is appropriate to refrain from all music. (Based on this, Rav Moshe allowed listening to recordings of acappella music on the radio during Sefira.)

2. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach: The Magen Avraham prohibits festive dancing (ריקודים ומחולות) during Sefira, in order to limit our expressions of joy during these sad times. Thus any music that is designed to bring one to dance, should be prohibited. (Rav Shlomo Zalman contends, however, that quiet slow music was never prohibited, since there was never a problem with music per se, only the dancing that it encouraged. He does not differentiate between recordings and live music, or instruments vs acappella.)

Ironically however, the vast majority of Sefira music questions are not about listening to music at all.

As a result of the near ubiquitousness of music, we seldom actually listen to music. (When was the last time that you sat down listen to a song with no other activity happening simultaneously?) Culturally speaking, the act of listening to music is no longer an activity we do, and thus it no longer engenders the same emotions and experience as it once did.

In recent years, a number of Poskim have taken this gradual shift into account when discussing the Halachos of Sefira. While everyone agrees that live concerts are still prohibited, listening to certain types of music while driving, exercising and working might well be permissible.

Rav Melamed (פניני הלכה) explains: “nowadays, everyone listens to music on electronic devices regularly, and since it has become so routine, the festiveness and joy associated with listening to music has disappeared.”

Rav Eliyahu Shlesinger (שו”ת שואלין ודורשין) adds: “Even though there we do not display happiness during these times of year, there is still a mitzvah to serve Hashem with joy, and for many people, listening to music is important to maintaining mental health.”

To be clear, there are many Poskim who disagree with this analysis, and these leniencies are not all widely accepted. Nevertheless, for the past few years, I have personally erred on the side of entertaining leniences for the sake of mental health and physical well-being.

The year, however, I’ve been rethinking my Sefira-music orientation, and perhaps some of these thoughts might resonate with you as well.

1. The reason for our mourning during Sefiras HaOmer is the death of the students of Rebbe Akiva, who “did not treat each other with respect.”

Historically, we have marked this mourning by decreasing our expressions of joy. Within this rubric, a public concert is inappropriate, and privately listening to music is benign. But our music listening habits, whilst not violating any public ban on joyousness, might well be perpetuating the same apathy and disdain that we are trying to mourn.

The moment we pop in our AirPods, the world around us goes silent, and we are (often consciously) signaling that we are not to be bothered.

This makes every conversation starter a little more strained.

Perhaps our noise-cancelling musical retreat does afford us the ability to be present with our work. But it comes at the cost of making us far less present with each other.

2. “When the students of Rebbe Akiva died, the world went silent.”

Chazal (יבמות סב ב) describe the aftermath of this plague with the terrifying phrase – וְהָיָה הָעוֹלָם שָׁמֵם – the world was desolate.

We are still mourning during the Omer because that desolation has not yet been repaired. Yet somehow, we have filled it with a lot of noise. So much so, that today, many people find any silence deeply unsettling.

We have noise machines to help us sleep and music in elevators to avoid the awkwardness.

Part of the Avoda of Sefiras HaOmer is to experience the discomfort of a world that feels a little too empty, so that we can choose to refill it with sounds of meaning.

3. The World of Music has Turned Against Us

Music has a unique power to unite people, and that power has been used and abused to incite Jew-hatred.

Just this week, 125,000 concert goers at Coachella were lead into chanting curses at the State of Israel. They roared, cheered and celebrated their unanimous animosity of the singular Jewish state.

I do not know if everyone at that concert arrived with antisemitism burning in their hearts, perhaps they were seduced by the simplistic moral high-ground on offer. But one thing is clear: Everyone left with a little less love for the Jewish people.

Rebbe Nachman (ליקוטי מוהר”ן ג) writes: הנה מי ששומע נגינה ממנגן רשע, קשה לו לעבודת הבורא – When someone listens to the music of a musician who is wicked, it is detrimental to his serving the Creator.

Songs have a powerful effect on us. Their emotions penetrate our hearts, even when as our minds work to protect our thoughts and opinions. Perhaps Sefira gives us a chance to audit the music we listen to?

None of this is Psak Halacha, but on a personal level, I’m trying to be a little more conscious about the types of music I’m listening to – during Sefira and beyond. I’m also trying to make sure that my music, audio books, shiurim and podcasts don’t come at the expense of my personal relationships.

With the hope that if we feel the discomfort that comes with silence, perhaps we can all work together to fill the world with the right kind of music.

In his book “Out of the Depths,” Chief Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau tells the following story:

In 1978, when I was forty-one years old, leaders of this seaside Israeli town (Netanya) asked me to respond to the call for candidates in the election for chief rabbi of the city. I was quite young for such a heavy responsibility; still people said, my chances of winning were good. I attended a meeting with then-mayor Reuben Kliegler, city administrators, and local Labor party leaders. I told the mayor that if I were elected I would be following in the footsteps of the dynasty of rabbis from which I descended.

I met with the mayor and his staff for four hours. The whole time, a man with white curly hair sat with us, but he did not open his mouth. Only when I rose to shake hands and take my leave did he address me and others: Friends, honored rabbi, before we disperse, please allow me to say my piece. In a minute you will understand why I held my tongue this whole time. In these hours sitting before Rabbi Lau, I have been reliving the eleventh of April 1945. I was deported from my hometown of Zarka, Poland, to the infamous camp of Buchenwald. On April 11, American airplanes circled in the skies above the camp. The prisoners, myself among them, burst out of the barracks. Spontaneously, we ran toward the gate, anticipating our liberation after six years of hell. As we ran, a hail of lead shot past us. We had no idea who was shooting, from where, why, or what was happening. We only knew that our lives were in danger.

Among those running toward the gate was a little boy. Later, I learned that his name was Lulek, and that he was just under eight years old. I realized that any child at Buchenwald had to be Jewish. I jumped on top of him and threw him to the ground, and lay over him to protect him from the bullets. And today I see him before me, alive and well. Rabbi Lau is that very same Lulek, the boy from Buchenwald.

Now I declare this to all of you. I David Anilevitch, was saved from that horror, fought in the Palmach, and today serve as deputy mayor of an Israeli city. If I have the merit of seeing this child, whom I protected with my body, become my spiritual leader, then I say to you [and here he pounded on the table so the water glasses shook] that there is a God…

For the next nine years, I served as chief rabbi of Netanya.

Of all the cherished moment in the life of a Jewish family, few compare to the moment our children will stand up proudly and sing “Ma Nishtana” – the “four questions”. Why are we eating Matzah? Why are we eating Maror? We are we all leaning? Why are we dipping?

If your family is anything like mine, by the time your kids sit down again, beaming from the praise from parents and grandparents, no one is looking for answers.

It all seems like such a farce. The object of the night is to educate our children about the story of the exodus. But they know it already, and they’re waiting to sing V’hi She’amda, Dayeinu and Paroah in Pajamas.

Have we all missed the point? Not quite.

The truth is that the questions at the Seder are not supposed to be answered, because the questions are not questions, they are invitations.

No one at the Seder is actually bothered by why we’re dipping. But they are bothered by two thousand years of Jewish exile.

No one is struggling to sleep at night because we all lean while drinking wine and eating matzah. We’re losing sleep over the 552 days that our enemies are still holding our brothers and sisters captive in Gaza.

It’s not a night of textual study or ancient history. The questions we have are not about details of rituals, but the meaning of our lives and the purpose of being Jewish in a world that so often hates us.

As our kids grow older, they too are trying to understand their place in this story. If we’re being honest, by the end of the evening, none of us will be any no closer to answering the big questions.

But one thing is certain, when another Jewish child gets up and sings Ma Nishtana, we can bang on the table and scream “There is a God.”

That’s how we finish the night: אחד אני יודע – I know One. One is Hashem. Somehow, for a few moments, all the biggest and most challenging questions of our lives and history disappear. All the “why’s” and “hows” are less relevant, because by the end of the story, Hashem will slaughter the Angel of Death, and we’re still going to be there. Maybe then we’ll have the time and mind-space for the answers.

For right now, this moment, the experience of Seder night is our opportunity to bang on the table and remind ourselves that there is a God.

In the mid 1800's, in the height of the California Gold Rush, a young father bid his family in New York goodbye, to seek his fortune out west.

Months went by and he found nothing but dirt. Finally, fed up, he decided to come home. He calls the train station and asks when the next train will be. “It's a leaving in 4 weeks”, they tell him “And it'll be months after that before the next one arrives.”

“How much for a ticket?”, he asks. When he hears the reply, he's torn. It's a lot a money. Money that he hasn't made yet. “I'll call you back” he says.

A week before the train leaves, he calls again. The price has gone up. “Should we book it for you?” “No,” he responds.

A day before the train leaves, he calls again. This time he is told: “There are no more tickets to buy. But if you come to the station tomorrow, you may yet be able to get a seat.”

The next day, he wakes up early, packs his bags and leave for station. Everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Weather, traffic, you name it.

The train is leaving at 12 noon. He gets to the station at 11:55am. Rushing through the throngs of people, he looks for the right platform. It's 11:58. He runs up the stairs, as he hears the train's whistle. It's 12 noon and the train is pulling out of station. Against his best judgement, he begins to run after the train. The conductor looks out of the window, and takes pity on him and he opens a door.

He calls out to the young man “Drop you bags and jump!” The whistle blows again. “Drop you baggage and jump!”

...

The story of Pesach begins on Shabbos Hagadol with one simple question: Are we willing to drop the baggage and jump.

For our ancestors in Egypt, this meant taking an Egyptian deity, tying it to their bedposts, and preparing to slaughter it. The were asked to reject the gods of their host cultures – which they had grown to believe in.In each generation, the baggage is a little different, as is the jump, but it always follows the same basic rules, with the same intensity and lack of clarity.

Ultimately, the challenge crystallizes to one excruciating split second decision; because when we drop the baggage, we still have no idea how the jump will go. We don’t know how we will land, we don’t know one day we will look back and relish this moment, or perhaps resent it.

Despite the regular complaints and failures of Klal Yisrael in the Midbar, Hashem still loved us for the moment that we dropped our baggage and jumped. The Navi describes love: זָכַרְתִּי לָךְ חֶסֶד נְעוּרַיִךְ אַהֲבַת כְּלוּלֹתָיִךְ לֶכְתֵּךְ אַחֲרַי בַּמִּדְבָּר בְּאֶרֶץ לֹא זְרוּעָה – I remember the kindness of your youth, your love as a bride – How you followed Me in the desert, in a land not sown.

Every year, in the days leading up to Pesach, that Avoda returns to us. We are each invited and instructed to take stock of the baggage we’re holding onto, to seek out the Chametz in our lives and souls, and destroy it.

Rav Shlomo Twerski (מלכות שלמה שבת הגדול) explains that before we can decide what we want to become, we need to know what we don’t want to be. As we grow as people, our aspirations should naturally change as well. But knowing what we reject needs to be iron clad. Indeed, the beginning of all personal development is a conviction that “I don’t want to be this way any longer.”

The Torah codifies this commitment with the prohibition of returning to Egypt: לֹא תֹסִפוּן לָשׁוּב בַּדֶּרֶךְ הַזֶּה עוֹד – You must not go back that way again.

On this Pasuk, the Izbitzer (ליקוטי מי השלוח, ספר דברים, שופטים ב׳) explained that the way of Egypt is not simply a road or location, but a way of life:

The impurity of Egypt was in that it constrained and limited a person by surrounding them with everything they could want and need. And when a person is conditioned to certain luxuries and pleasures they are unwilling to give them up, even for the chance to become greater.

To the outsider, our cleaning, kashering and destroying of Chametz must seem insane. For a little more than a week, we act like crazy people; obsessing over every crumb, ensuring that no morsel of leaven survives our scrutiny.

But perhaps thats the whole point. It’s an annual proof to ourselves that we can, in fact, completely eradicate the baggage that’s holding us back. We can walk away from the luxuries of our vices and bad habits. We can abandon our negativity and cynicism, and make the jump to start becoming the people we want to be.

Preparing for Pesach gives us the confidence to know that if we we can live without bread, there is nothing that can hold us back from taking the next big leap in life.

Before you get nervous, this is not a Kashrus alert. Baruch Hashem we are privileged to live in a community with well stocked and well supervised Kosher establishments.

But walking through the Pesach aisles of our local stores, there are products that my kids have noticed as particularly strange: “Salt water for the Seder”, “Ten Pre-wrapped pieces of Chametz for Bedikas Chametz”, or a “Pre-roasted Zeroa for the Seder Plate.”

I’m not going to talk about the prices of these items, but needless to say, I think we’ll be making our own salt water.

Please note, I’m not passing judgement on the companies making these products, or the stores for selling them.

My wife is a therapist, specializing in the mental health of seniors, their spouses and their aides. For the woman suffering with Parkinson’s disease, the ability to purchase “Ten Pre-wrapped pieces of Chametz for Bedikas Chametz” is an immense blessing. It allows her to ensure that she and her husband can fulfill the mitzvah with diligence as well as dignity.

This is an extreme example. But there are many others that are far more palatable – and often far more costly. Top of the list is the ever growing Pesach Hotel industry.

This is a delicate conversation, and I am not looking to make people upset here. On the one hand, we applaud the innovations that allow for large families to unite for Yom Tov, and the ability for people to get a vacation while still observing Torah and mitzvos.

On the other, we are falling into the trap of outsourcing our Yiddishkeit... And that is far more dangerous than we’d care to admit.

But knowing where we should draw the line is complicated. So let's try to ground the discussion in the lessons of the Torah:

Chazal (Yoma 72a) tell us:

אָמַר רַבִּי חָמָא בְּרַבִּי חֲנִינָא מַאי דִּכְתִיב עֲצֵי שִׁטִּים עוֹמְדִים ... שֶׁמָּא תֹּאמַר אָבַד סִבְרָן וּבָטֵל סִכּוּיָין תַּלְמוּד לוֹמַר עוֹמְדִים שֶׁעוֹמְדִין לְעוֹלָם וּלְעוֹלָמִים

Rabbi Chama, son of Rabbi Chanina, said: What is the meaning of that which is written: “And you shall make the boards for the Mishkan of acacia wood, standing”?... “Standing” is written to hint at the following: You might think that since the Mishkan is no longer in use, the boards would rot and decay. Therefore, the verse states “standing” to indicate that they will last forever and ever.

The Seforno (ר׳ פר׳ פקודי) adds:

Not only did the Mishkan last forever, none of the utensils used in the Mishkan ever fell into the hands of our enemies.

But then the Seforno pivots: > This is the opposite of what happened to the “permanent” Temple, בית עולמים, built by Shlomo HaMelech.

He continues to explains that Shlomo's Beis HaMikdash needed regular repair, and that it was eventually, and tragically destroyed.

What could account for this discrepancy? The Seforno's answer here is biting: The Mishkan was built by Jewish hands. The Beis HaMikdash was outsourced to foreign laborers from Tzidon.

His point is clear: If you want to create something that will stand the test of time, you need to do it yourself. We dare not outsource the things that are most important in our lives: Torah, mitzvos and relationships.

But the comments of the Seforno require explanation on two counts. Firstly, if the tragedy of the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash could've been avoided by communal engagement, then why did Shlomo HaMelech – the wises of all men – not insist on it? Secondly, and perhaps more painfully, what difference does this make for us? The Beis HaMikdash is destroyed, and the Mishkan is hidden. Either way, we have no access to them?!

To this the Alshich HaKadosh notes that there were fundamentally different emotions driving the building of the Mishkan and Mikdash.

The Mishkan was build by Jewish hands because it was a project borne out of Love of Hashem, Love of Torah and Love of the Jewish people. They wanted to build it. They wanted to get their hands dirty.

By contrast, the purpose of the Beis Mikdash was to inspire a sense of awe and fear. Walking into the Mikdash was entering the Palace of the King. Royalty. Sovereignty. Majesty. It could not simply be cobbled together by volunteers; even if they wanted to. It needed to be perfect – so the greatest artists and architects were hired. And that meant foreign labor.

Tragically, and ironically, the attempt to create a fixed, permanent, awe-inspiring edifice resulted in the disenfranchising of the very people it was meant to inspire.

This is the tension at the heart of everything we do in life: marriage, raising children, building a business and cultivating a community. Do we do it ourselves or do we outsource to professionals?

Of course, we all know that there must be a balance. We cannot do everything ourselves, that's a recipe for burnout. But by handing over every task, we make ourselves obsolete.

Amazingly, Chazal pondered and resolved this centuries ago by understanding that everything we do creates a change in us and a change in the world. But that the primary orientation of a Jew is first to focus on the change in ourselves.

Let's understand this in context of Pesach.

Our Sages teach us that a מצות הגוף – a mitzvah on ourselves – cannot be outsourced. No one can eat matzah for you. No one can drink the four cups on your behalf. Just like no one can exercise for you, or loose weight on your behalf.

But then there are mitzvos that create an effect: You need a chametz-free home. You need a seder prepared. These can be outsourced. But they should not be, since מצוה בו יותר מבשלוחו – there is a greater mitzvah to do it ourselves. Yes, of course, a professional might be able to do it better. But the goal is changing ourselves far more than having a “perfect seder” (whatever that might mean to your mother-in-law...)

And what if we really, truly, have no idea how to do a particular mitzvah? Chazal do not leave us in the dark. They instructed halachik mechanisms, for example: appointing a Shaliach (an agent) and שומע כעונה (listening to a text rather than saying it).

But the point is clear: We should always err on the side of doing it ourselves. An outsourced Yiddishkeit does not last, even if it is perfect.

The Eretz Tzvi notes that while neither Mikdash not Mishkan are available to us today, the truth that the Mishkan still stands somewhere is deeply meaningful. In the world of Galus, neither love nor fear are readily accessible. But the Mishkan of love still exists – it's hidden, but it's there. It is the only tool we have to build a relationship with Hashem if only we would uncover it.

This understanding is essential in imbuing our children with a commitment to Torah and Mitzvos. By getting them involved in Pesach we ensure that they know that Yiddishkeit is about passion and enjoyment – not perfection and fear. And that makes it last.

But it's not only about our kids and grandkids. Somehow, we have developed this false narrative that kids need to do mitzvos with love while we just need to get it done – to be “Yotzei”.

What happens to good parents on Seder night when the kids fall asleep? Does the seder loose steam, and fizzle out? Or do we, as adults, engage deeper and more meaningfully?

The next two weeks are about getting rid of the Chametz in our hearts, by getting rid of the Chametz in our homes. It's about preparing to leave the Mitzraim of our lives, by preparing for Seder night.

Ultimately, the goal of all of Yiddishkeit is to pour our passion, excitement and engagement into changing ourselves, and deepening our connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

Hashem should help us to live lives of love and engagement; that whatever we build should last forever.

For the past year and a half, there is one lesson we have been learning over and over again. It’s a lesson that we are still resistant to accept; one that we find inherently and fundamentally challenging.

Everything we thought to be impossible is actually quite possible. And everything we thought to be certain is, in fact, subject to reexamination.

Every news headline has prompted us to question our basic assumptions about politics, war and international diplomacy. Not a week goes without reality defying our expectations, and in the aftermath, we are left to post-rationalize the events of our own lives.

Not a single one of us could’ve predicted the current state of the Jewish people from the vantage of just two years ago.

And yet, despite our obviously limited capacities of prediction, we still hold firmly to our own notions of “possible” and “impossible.”

This is true nationally and politically as well as personally. We find ourselves committed to some arbitrary set of ideas, ideals and ideologies; forcing ourselves to cover over our questions with bandaid after bandaid.

All of is might make us feel inadequate and misguided. But our inability to see how the present develops into the future is not as much a bug as it is a feature.

We cannot predict the future with any accuracy, because our future is bigger than us. The future of Klal Yisrael is that our current reality is and will transform into a state of redemption. And that’s impossible for us to see as individuals. There isn’t a single Jew alive who can plot the map explaining how we get from here to there; much like there was no Jew in Mitzraim who could’ve anticipated the ten plagues.

In retrospect, it all adds up; but Geulah is greater than the sum of its parts. Scientists and philosophers refer to this phenomenon as the principle of Emergence. One molecule of water is incapable of making a wave, but when many more drops of water collect together, they transcend their individual definitions and limitations. The same is true of a swarm of bees, or the beauty we observe in the unique fractal development of a snow flake. Some researchers argue that the presence of human intelligence itself is an emergent property arising from the coalescence of cells in our brains and bodies.

Realizing this, there is a deep and very practical application for us to consider, even as we cannot yet perceive the road to Geulah ourselves. The more that we connect to each other, to Hashem and to His Torah, the more we will become as individuals.

With this in mind, we can understand Rashi’s comment at the beginning of our Parsha:

ויקהל משה. וְהוּא לְשׁוֹן הִפְעִיל, שֶׁאֵינוֹ אוֹסֵף אֲנָשִׁים בְּיָּדַיִם, אֶלָּא הֵן נֶאֱסָפִין עַל פִּי דִּבּוּרוֹ

The word ויקהל is used in the verbal form that expresses the idea of causing a thing to be done, because one does not actually assemble people with one’s hands, but they are assembled through his command.

The gathering together was inspired by Moshe, but it was a naturally occurring event; almost beyond the will of any single Jew, they all “were gathered.” The fictitious divisions between Jews evaporated, and somehow they were drawn together.

Rebbe Nachman (תנינא פ״ב:ג׳) explains how Moshe managed to bring the nation together:

שֶׁמֹּשֶׁה קָשַׁר אֶת עַצְמוֹ אֲפִלּוּ לַפָּחוּת שֶׁבְּיִשְׁרָאֵל וּמָסַר נַפְשׁוֹ עֲלֵיהֶם, כְּמוֹ שֶׁכָּתוּב (שמות ל״ב:ל״ב): וְאִם אַיִן מְחֵנִי נָא. וְזֶה פֵּרוּשׁ (שמות ל״ה:א׳): וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה וְכוּ' – שֶׁמֹּשֶׁה הָיָה מְאַסֵּף וּמְיַחֵד וּמְקַשֵּׁר אֶת עַצְמוֹ עִם כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל, אֲפִלּוּ עִם הַפָּחוּת שֶׁבַּפְּחוּתִים.

Moshe bound himself with even the least Jew, and gave his life for them, as it is written, “But if not, please blot me out!” (Exodus 32:32). This is also the meaning of: “And Moshe assembled…” (Exodus 35:1)—that Moshe would gather, unite and bind himself with all of Israel, even with the least of the least.

Moshe had just demonstrated his total self sacrifice for each and every member of Klal Yisrael. When he said “Chevra, I want to talk to you,” they came running. Why did Moshe need everyone together? Because these are the survivors of the Egel HaZahav. These are the ones who saw their friends and neighbors bow to a golden calf and chase Hashem from the midst of Klal Yisrael. The Alshich HaKadosh explains: It would be up to these Jews to bring Hashem’s presence back into their midst. The Shechina of Hashem is an emergent property of the unity of the Jewish people.

The Sfas Emes (ויקהל תרל”ו) writes that when Moshe saw the fractured and frazzled Jewish nation gathered together, he felt a deep sense of Nachas, exclaiming: אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָם – These are the things that Hashem is commanding you to do. These displays of unity, these moments of connection.

A year and a half into this war, with our brave Chayalim returning to fighting in Gaza, we are still plagued by machlokes and disunity.

In many ways, the war had accentuated the divide between Charedim and Dati’im. Right and Left are still arguing vehemently about control over State institutions. The families of the Hostages are constantly pitted against army intelligence. We have no answers, and no clarity appears to be forthcoming.

But Geulah is coming. Somehow from within all this darkness and turmoil, redemption is forming. Our Avoda, and indeed the Avoda of Klal Yisrael is to not fall apart. Jewish unity in our purpose and our presence can and should transcend even the most extreme machlokes.

After all, our long history has proven that any singular approach is most likely wrong. But in gathering together, Hashem’s Presence can yet emerge.

May we merit to see it soon.

When Rabbi Uri Zohar decided to leave behind his previous life of glamour and stardom to become torah observant, his non-religious friends asked the noted comedian if he could tell them one last joke.

He replied by telling them the following: one day a secular Israeli police officer noticed two religious yeshiva students driving together on a motorcycle. The officer drove his car behind them looking for a pretense to issue the duo a ticket. To his chagrin, they stopped at every stop sign, adhered to the speed limit, and drove courteously.

After a half-hour the cop gave up. He pulled them over and said to them, “I don’t get it. I couldn’t catch you doing anything wrong!” The yeshiva boys replied curtly, “that’s because we have Hashem with us.” The cop jumped up, “aha! I’m going to give you a ticket. You have three on a motorcycle!”

How do we get Hashem on our motorcycle? That's the question of the Parsha, of Purim and of Life.

The Jewish people have just built and bowed to the Egel HaZahav. Moshe has smashed the luchos in front of them, and they have narrowly avoided being completely destroyed.

This feeling of utter failure, of brokenness and despair has accompanied us throughout the ages. Every few years or decades, Klal Yisrael feels the weight of our mistakes and misunderstandings; and every time it comes with pain.

We’re somewhere in the middle of our story; not quite at the beginning of this war, but not quite at the end. We’re in a pause, a lull, a moment where we have the clarity to understand that we have work to do, but no idea what needs to be done, or how to go about it.

To that end, the Torah reveals how our ancestors contended with their failures: They built the Mishkan. In the giving and donating, in the building and constructing, in the carpentry and tapestry, they would make a place for Hashem in their lives.

And what a Simcha it must have been! With the anxiety of their destruction finally abated, and the fear of abandonment by Hashem quelled, they gave like no other capital campaign in history.

But beyond the incredible desire to bring the building materials, the Ramban (35:21) describes how each person found within themselves new abilities to craft and construct; skills that they never had before:

וטעם אשר נשאו לבו לקרבה אל המלאכה (שמות ל״ו:ב׳) – כי לא היה בהם שלמד את המלאכות האלה ממלמד, או מי שאימן בהן ידיו כלל, אבל מצא בטבעו שידע לעשות כן, ויגבה לבו בדרכי י״י (דברי הימים ב י״ז:ו׳) לבא לפני משה לאמר לו: אני אעשה כל אשר ה׳ דובר

They were not trained, but found within their nature that they knew what to do... They came to Moshe and declared “I will do what Hashem had commanded.”

Imagine the hislahavus – the passion, drive and devotion!

It is then all the more perplexing that once the mishkan was completed, it was packed up, and not assembled for another few months.

The Medrash (תנחומא פקודי יא) relates that during this waiting period, the ליצני הור – the clowns, the scoffers, were having a good time:

והיו ליצני הדור מרננין ומהרהרין ואומרין: למה נגמרה מלאכת המשכן ואינו עומד מיד

The scoffers of the generation were celebrating and musing and saying: Why is it taking so long for the Mishkan to be standing?

Note the wording of the Medrash: They're not asking “what are we waiting for?” They're saying it. It's not a question, it's a statement. We all know that voice; the one that says: Why is it taking so long? The voice that “knows” it's never going to happen. This is the voice that says “we’ve done everything that needs to get done. We’ve given, and built, and visited and worked and gotten our kids and friends and family involved. There’s nothing more than we can do!”

The Medrash explains further that the delay was due to Hashem's desire to have the consecration of the Miskhan in Nisan the month Geulah, and of Yitzachak Avinu's birth.

But, we should ask, surely there was a better solution to this timing conundrum. Perhaps Hashem could’ve provided a little less supernatural help in building the Mishkan. Perhaps He could’ve told us that the Mishkan would only be dedicated in Nisan? Why leave room for the scoffers to question whether or not Hashem's presence would really return to the Jewish people?

But this mandatory waiting period was not a misaligning of schedules. Clearly, Hashem wanted us to wait.

The Egel HaZahav was built out of fear that Moshe wasn't coming back, and we were now lost in an uninhabitable wilderness. That anxiety led to a rash and disastrous outcome. Hashem wants us to learn to breathe.

Once the Mishkan is complete, He forces us to wait; to take stock, and to understand that while Hashem’s presence will certainly fill the Mishkan, He’s there even before it is built. He always was, is and will be.

He was there when we felt alone without Moshe. He was there when we build the Egel, and He’ll be there when the Mishkan is completed. The deepest truth about the Mishkan, is that you need a Mishkan to find Hashem.

Ultimately, that’s the secret of Purim. It’s a Yom Tov for us: They Jews who are waiting. The Jews without a Beis HaMikdash, in a foreign land, under foreign rule. Jews who live with fear of the unknown and a yearning to be rescued.

Purim tells us that Hashem is here too. He’s always been on the motorbike; and perhaps for the first time we should notice that He’s driving.

Without doubt, we are living in a new golden age of kids' cartoons. When I think back on my own childhood, and the shows we used to watch, I can confidently say that my kids have it better.

This is not a blanket statement; there are still plenty of shows that dangerous, destructive or just plain stupid. But if you’re looking for quality, there are some great options. Shows like Daniel Tiger teach good middos in a fun and friendly way. Bluey has given my kids ideas for games, and demonstrated how to deal with conflict and disappointment. These are wonderful lessons.

(As an aside, perhaps one of the best things to happen to kids TV, is the possibility of avoiding the incessant barrage of advertisements. Today, we have the choice to stream exactly what we want to show, and nothing more.)

Now, in the interest of clarity and full disclosure, I am not advocating for any screen time at all. I am and certainly not in favor of the immense volumes of TV watching that most kids engage in nowadays. But if any TV watching occurs at all, I am grateful that the options we have to choose from are healthier and more wholesome than in the past few decades.

Today’s shows tell stories of tough situations and explore complex emotions. The resolutions of those situations almost always involves empathy, understanding and sensitivity. This is all good, and it’s welcome change from the bland and shallow stories that cartoons used to tell.

But with all of that noted, there is something missing from the safe and colorful entertainment of today: There are no bad guys.

In the interest of demonstrating positivity, we seem to have dismissed the idea that some people, and some actions are wrong. Not simply misunderstood, but wrong.

Even in the more mature and complex world of superheroes, we have learned that villains have backstories; that they are victims of abuse, of bullying and loneliness.

These stories resonate with us today because we want to believe that deep down, people are always good-hearted. We want to believe that that no person truly chooses to be evil.

But this is only partially true.

The circumstances we are born into do indeed shape our perspective. They limit our options and change the way we think about the world. But there is nothing in the world that can force a person to choose to become evil. That is always a choice. And throughout human history, there have been people that have made such choices.

To that end, the Rambam write that the reason we are commanded to read Parshas Zachor this Shabbos is:

וּמִצְוַת עֲשֵׂה לִזְכֹּר תָּמִיד מַעֲשָׂיו הָרָעִים וַאֲרִיבָתוֹ. כְּדֵי לְעוֹרֵר אֵיבָתוֹ. It is a positive commandment to constantly remember their evil deeds and their ambush of Israel to arouse our hatred of them.

We recognize the actions of Amalek is evil, an worthy to be despised.

The Sefer HaChinuch adds that we must be reminded of Amalek: פֶּן תֶּחֱלַשׁ אֵיבָתוֹ וְתֶחְסַר מֵהַלְּבָבוֹת בְּאֹרֶךְ הַזְּמַנִּים – lest the enmity be weakened and be removed from the hearts over the length of time.

The nature of the Jewish people is to see the good in everyone and everything. We are predisposed to forgiving and forgetting, as Chazal explain:

שְׁלֹשָׁה סִימָנִים יֵשׁ בְּאוּמָּה זוֹ: הָרַחְמָנִים, וְהַבַּיְישָׁנִין, וְגוֹמְלֵי חֲסָדִים.

There are three distinguishing marks of the Jewish people. They are merciful, they are bashful, and they perform acts of kindness.

We’re not people who like holding a grudge. Our greatest leaders are teachers; not our warriors. We are the nation that champions the voice of Yaakov, not the hands of Esav.

But if Hashem has to demand from us “Destroy all memory of Amalek. Never forget,” it means that we have more than a tendency to move on. We have a Yetzer Hara to ignore Amalek and forget what he did.

This Yetzer Hara is subtle, complex and devastatingly dangerous: The reason we’d like to forget Amalek is because we understand them.

We do not dismiss Amalek as a psychopath. On the contrary, Chazal (סנהדרין צ”ט ב) provide us with a heartbreaking background story for Amalek:

Timna, the daughter of Lotan sought to convert. She came before Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and they did not accept her. She went and became a concubine of Eliphaz, son of Esau, and said, referring to herself: It is preferable that she will be a maidservant for this nation, and she will not be a noblewoman for another nation. Ultimately, Amalek, son of Eliphaz, emerged from her, and that tribe afflicted the Jewish people. What is the reason that the Jewish people were punished by suffering at the hand of Amalek? It is due to the fact that they should not have rejected her when she sought to convert.

The Chizkuni (שמות יז:ח) further explains Amalek’s vendetta against our ancestors:

וילחם עם ישראל מפני שנאת מכירת הבכורה – He went to fight the Jewish nation due to the hated he harbored from Esav’s sale of his birthright.

Amalek felt cheated and rejected. He carried the generational pain of his grandfather Esav, and his mother Timna. He had good reason to resent the Jewish people!

And yet, despite all of this, when Amalek led his army to attack the nascent Jewish nation who had just escaped Egyptian slavery. He became a murderer.

Our obligation to destroy Amalek is not to eradicate some unimaginable and incomprehensible evil. It is to acknowledge and understand that Amalek might well have been a victim of rejection, failure and loneliness, and that our ancestors might have played a part in that! But even if all that is true, there is nothing that can excuse his choice to become evil.

The profundity of this understanding is instrumental in our current battle against Hamas and their supporters. It allows us to accept that the residents of Gaza are victims. They are victims of Hamas who uses them as human shields, of the UN who is insistent on keeping them as refugees, and of the Arab world who refuses to help them. They are also, in part, victims of Israel who has destroyed their homes and threatens their safety.

We can all acknowledge that their lives are terrible. And yet they are still responsible for the choices that they made to elect Hamas, and participate in the murder, rape and kidnapping of innocent civilians; men, women and children.

Growing up in a painful world does not grant moral license to become a monster. If it did, then the Jewish people should be excused from everything, for all time.

This understanding is true in our national fight against evil, but it is just as important in our internal Milchemes HaYetzer – the fight against our evil inclination. In both cases, we are tempted to make excuses.

All too often, we feel the urge to rationalize our own failures and justify our flaws. After all, we didn’t choose to be in these situations! But the mitzvah of remembering Amalek teaches us that while our circumstances may not be of our own making, our choices most certainly still are.

Torah commands us: It might not be your fault, but it’s still your responsibility.

In the deepest way, this is why Amalek is described as “Happening along the way”. They represent the ideology that humanity is never in control, that we are all always excused as victims of our circumstances. Klal Yisrael represents the opposite. We can always choose to live with morality and integrity; regardless of what might be happening to us and around us.

The mitzvah of this Shabbos is to fight that Yetzer Hara and eradicate it. To commit to an understanding that people can and do choose to be the bad guys.

It’s our obligation to choose Good.

A week ago, I got into a debate with a fellow Jew online. When the bodies of Kfir and Ariel Bibas were returned, without their mother, I harbored the unreasonable hope that Shiri Bibas was still alive, that somehow she had escaped.

Emotionally, I wrote the following:

I know it’s absurd but somewhere, deep down, I’m secretly dreaming, hoping, yearning that tomorrow Shiri Bibas will emerge in slow motion victorious a superhero from the hell hole of Gaza in a blaze of orange smoke as hamas is torn apart destroyed in her wake. Never to recover And without looking behind her, she’ll whisper with the voice of ten thousand mothers “That was for my boys.” And if Shiri Bibas cannot do it... Then Hashem it’s time You do it.

Tragically, as we now know, Shiri Bibas did not survive.

But the hope that Hashem eliminates our enemies and avenges the blood of His children is burning in the hearts and minds of Klal Yisrael.

It was this regarding this point, however, that I was challenged. Is it reasonable to Daven that Hashem destroys our enemies? One commenter wrote “Not the way the world works. God waits for us. He doesn’t like to intervene.”

That’s certainly true... to some extent. The Shulchan Aruch (או”ח רל:א) rules, we are forbidden to pray for a change in the natural order of the world:

One who prays for something that has already happened. For example, he entered the city and heard a cry in the city and he prayed “may it be God's will that this cry is not from a member of my household” or if his his wife was expecting and more than forty days had passed and he said “may it be God's will that my wife will give birth to a boy – behold this is a meaningless prayer. Rather a person should always pray for the future and give thanks for the past...

This Halacha, however, seems contradictory to a custom of the Kol Bo, as quotes by the Rema (או”ח קפז:ד):

If a person forgot to say Al HaNissim in Birkas HaMazon on Channukah or Purim, they should add a “Harachaman”, saying: “May The Merciful One Perform For Us Miracles Like He Did In Those Days”... and this is our custom.

Apparently, there are times that we can pray for miracles explicitly. The Rishonim and Achronim grapple with the distinction, offering explanations as to when we can and cannot ask Hashem to change nature.

• The Yeshuos Yaakov writes that we may not pray for open miracles that defy the laws of nature. But we are certainly allowed to pray for hidden miracles where nature is not obviously subverted.
• The Einayim Lamishpat explains that we differentiate between miracles that we want, versus miracles that we need for survival.
• The Bechor Shor (see Shaarei Teshuva 187:2) notes that there is a difference between an individual and Klal Yisrael. Individuals cannot pray for miracles, since there is no guarantee that an individual is worthy of miracles. But Klal Yisrael is always worthy of miracles.

From all of these explanations, it seems clear that we can and should be praying for Hashem to perform miracles for Klal Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael; for Tzahal and for the hostages still held in brutal captivity.

None of this means we can rely on miracles alone, the Talmud Yerushalmi (יומא א:ד) learns from the Pasuk לא תנסו את ה' אלהיכם – do not test Hashem your God. But we can certainly ask, yearn and hope for miracles when it pertains to life and death of individuals and the needs of the Jewish people.

Thus far, we have discussed the propriety and permissibility of these tefillos. The question that remains is if there is anything we can do it merit these tefillos being answered.

Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak, the Yid Hakdosh of P’shischa, was asked this question in a harrowing moment in his own life.

It once happened that a messenger raced into the Beis Medrash telling the Yid Hakdosh that something was wrong with his son Asher. He had contracted some mysterious illness, the Rebbe should get home as soon as possible; not much time was left.

As he entered his home, a path was cleared to his son’s bed, where he saw the young boy in deep pain and distress, struggling to breath and holding by the last moments of his life. The Yid Hakadosh sat by his son’s bed waiting for the inevitable, when a talmid, Rabbi Peretz, grabbed a Chumash from the bed side table and opened it. The Pasuk was from our Parsha: וְאֶל־הָאָרֹן תִּתֵּן אֶת־הָעֵדֻת אֲשֶׁר אֶתֵּן אֵלֶיךָ – And into the Ark you should place the Tablets which I will give to you.

The Rebbe heard the last words of the Pasuk speaking to him, אֲשֶׁר אֶתֵּן אֵלֶיךָ, “The Torah is telling me, I will give you Asher. My son Asher!” Hope is not lost.

He then stood up and declared: I herby swear that I will give everything that I own to tzedaka; my home and everything in it, down to every thread and shoelace. Master of Universe, it is unreasonable to assume that a child taking has last breath will recover. But it’s also unreasonable for a person to give everything that they own to Tzedaka. I’ll be unreasonable for you, and You’ll be unreasonable for me.

As he finished speaking, color returned to his son’s face. Slowly, Asher made a full recover.

And that’s our Avoda as well. We need miracles. We need Hashem to intervene and help us; to violate the rules of nature which He put in place. But to merit these miracles, we need to overcome our nature as well. If we’re ready and will live an unreasonable life, we’re entitled to ask for unreasonable results.

With Hashem’s help as Chodesh Adar enters, we should soon see miracles. Like He for our ancestors in those days, in this time.

This week I received a question from one of the incredible women in our Kehilla:

“I have lit an extra candle for the Bibas boys every Shabbat since Oct 7th. Do I need to keep lighting it now...”

It was amongst the most beautiful and terrible questions I’d even been asked.

Practically, it’s a complex question in the laws of Nedarim (vows). We make reference to this during the Hataras Nedarim on erev Rosh Hashana: “Sometimes I took on a practice or a custom and did it at least three times...”

In this case, the action was adding on to the mitzvah of Shabbos candles. But with what intention? To continue this forever? Or, most likely, to stop once those boys came home?

After consulting with a Posek, it appears that the correct course of action would be to stop lighting the additional candle. After all, tragically, those boys are coming home.

In the deepest way, this is the transformative power of Halacha. Most our lives, we wade through murkiness and confusion, trying to make sense and find meaning in darkness and doubt. But when we distill all the variables into a singular question of “What should I do now?”, the Torah has an answer.

Somehow, the yearning for the safety of Ariel and Kfir which was contained in that extra flame, will now be memorialized in the absence of the additional light.

Somehow, in the intricacies and minutiae of Jewish law, we find a space to contain the infinite complexities of life.

This model for this process was first taught in the space between Parshas Yisro and Parshas Mishpatim. The revelation at Sinai was overwhelming, intense and blinding. It presented us with vision of what Hashem wants of us, and wants from the world. But such ideas, inspiring and awesome, are difficult to distill in the messiness of my life and yours.

To that end, the Torah introduces us to world of Mishpatim – daily life.

Mishpatim is a recipe book for when things go wrong. When the light of Mount Sinai feels dim and distant; when we are drowning in confusion. When day turns to night, and night turns to nightmares. When we ask ourselves despondently “How did we get here?” Or, “How did our relationship sour so devastatingly? How could we have been so neglectful? How could we have blundered so badly?”

So the Torah, this Shabbos begins to teach us about world of brokenness: כִּי תִקְנֶה עֶבֶד עִבְרִי – If you should purchase a Jewish slave...

From here the Torah explains the laws of slavery for this Eved Ivri. But we cannot help wonder why the Torah begins these laws with the purchasing of a Jewish slave, while it neglects to describe how such a situation is even possible. Were we not all freed from Mitzrayim slavery?! How could it be that there are Jewish slaves at all?!

Rashi, fills us in:

מיד בית דין שמכרוהו בגניבתו כמה שנאמר ואם אין לו ונמכר בגניבתו (שמות כ”ב:ב') או אינו אלא במוכר עצמו מפני דוחקו The Jewish slave is bought from Beis Din which sold him for a theft which he had committed (in order to pay back his debts)... Or perhaps he who sells himself as a servant on account of his desperation.

We’re talking about a thief who cannot pay back a debt, or perhaps someone who, for lack of friends or relatives finds himself at the point that he must sell himself into slavery to survive. It’s a final, and tragically desperate option.

Yet, our question remains: Why do we need to turn to Rashi to provide the explanation. Why does the Torah itself explain how the circumstances came to be?

The Mei HaShiloach (ריש פ׳ משפטים ח״ב explains:

Rather than opening with how the problem occurred, the Torah begins with how to solve it.

The great dream of Revelation cannot be actualized by asking “how did I get here?” We fix the world and fix ourselves by asking “What can we do now?”

All too often, the preoccupation of previous failures, blunders and mistakes is paralyzing. The Torah is far less interested in the circumstances, or lack thereof, that resulted in this situation. These details are relegated to the commentary, they are the tertiary explanation, playing second fiddle to the most important questions: “What Do I Do Now? How do I fix this?”

In every instance in Mishpatim, the Torah describes the correct thing to do; in cases of damages, borrowing, lending, personal injury, and through the plethora of experience that present throughout our lives.

“If you should buy a slave... If a man should conspire to kill another man... If two people should be fighting... If they should harm a pregnant woman... If one man injures another.”

In each case, the Torah presents the circumstance, not the background.

The great Chiddush, the real truth to Parshas Mishpatim is that *there is a right answer*. There is a Mishpat, a Halacha. Despite the murkiness of the situation, the challenges presented and the courage demanded, there is an optimal solution to the problem.

For if we believe and understand that our lives are consequential, that our actions are meaningful, that Hashem wants me to be where I am right now, then there is always a right thing to do; difficult as it may be.

Rashi notes that this Chiddush, is connoted by the first letter of our parsha:

ואלה המשפטים – כל מקום שנאמר אלה פסל את הראשונים, ואלה מוסף על הראשונים מה הראשוני' מסיני אף אילו מסיני,

Wherever אלה (these), is used it invalidates the preceding section. When ואלה (and these) is used it adds something to the former subject. Therefore: “And these are the mishpatim”. Just as the former commandments (the עשרת הדברות) were given at Sinai so these, too, were given at Sinai!

Simply stated, the influence of Hashem on our lives is not limited to the Ten Commandments. It’s not limited to big principles, or overarching themes.

Ultimately, our lives, moment to moment can be simplified to answering: “What should I do right now to ensure that my life comes a little closer to what Hashem wants from the world.” Or, in the words of the Navi: איה מקום כבודו – Where, in this place, can I find God?

But perhaps, as Rebbe Nachman teaches, every Torah is also a Tefillah.

As the light of hope for the Bibas Boys fades, we turn to You, Master of the Universe. As we try to reveal what You want from us in these painful and confusing times, perhaps You too will show us what You want us to know, what You want us to do. הִגָּלֵה נָא וּפְרֹשׂ חָבִיב עָלַי אֶת סֻכַּת שְׁלוֹמָךְ – Reveal Yourself to us, and please, our Dearest friend, spread over us the Sukkah of Your peace.

We all heard the President’s threat to our enemies: All hell is going to break out. And the phrase struck me curiously, because I’m not sure we all understand the word “hell” the same way.

In almost ever class I have taught, during some Q&A, someone raises the question “Do Jews believe in Hell?” It’s a complicated question, because it requires deprogramming ourselves from the Western/Christian notion of reward and punishment.

As far as our tradition is concerned, Hashem wants each of us to live full and productive lives of Torah, Avodah and Chessed. He also wants us to understand the destructive nature of living in opposition to these ideals. In the event that a person neglects to do Teshuva for their errors, Hashem in His great kindness gifts us the chance to fix up our mistakes once we leave this world. In place of doing the hard work of fixing ourselves in this world, we carry that over to the next world. That’s Gehinom in a nutshell.

Fascinatingly however, Chazal (ערובין יט:א) tells us that there are three openings to Gehinom in this world!

וְאָמַר רַבִּי יִרְמְיָה (בַּר) אֶלְעָזָר: שְׁלֹשָׁה פְּתָחִים יֵשׁ לַגֵּיהִנָּם, אֶחָד בַּמִּדְבָּר וְאֶחָד בַּיָּם וְאֶחָד בִּירוּשָׁלַיִם.

And Rabbi Yirmeya ben Elazar also said: There are three entrances to Gehenna, one in the wilderness, one in the sea, and one in Jerusalem.

The Gemara goes on cite various pesukim, proving that these Openings to Hell exist in these three locations. But the entire discussion seems peculiar; being that Hell is experienced by the soul. Why then would there need to be entry points in this world?

The Maharal (גבורות ה’ מז) explains:

Our sages are teaching us that there are three fundamental principles in the Torah, each of each were taught to us in a particular place.

1. Hashem is Real, and there is no force or power outside of Him. This was the paradigmatic lesson of Yetzias Mitzrayim, which culminated in the crossing of Yam Suf.
2. The Torah is Real. This was the lesson which we learned in the desert, standing at the foot of Har Sinai.
3. Hashem cares about the affairs of humanity, and is directing human history. This truth is experienced most palpably in Eretz Yisrael, and even more so in Yerushalayim.

In each of these “places” there is a distinct possibility of missing the point. Failure to absorb the profundity of these truths, then, is an entryway into a life of depravity and immorality. Essentially, the denial of any of these three principles will necessitate a painful process of Teshuva in this world or the next.

The Maharal goes on to explain that these three foundations are repeated and reviewed every year as we experience the Shalosh Regalim: Pesach reminds us that Hashem is Real, Shavuos reminds us that the Torah is Real, and Succos reminds us that Hashem cares about us.

To that end, I’d like to suggest that in this war which Klal Yisrael is fighting, there is in fact the possibility for All Hell to break out. (And it would seem that the President was unwittingly expressing a deeper truth than he knew.)

At this perilous stage in the conflict, we need to remember that the goal of the war is not just about bringing back the hostages; nor is it simply to destroy Hamas. Both of these aims are essential obligations. The primary aim of the war is to restore the honor and stature of Klal Yisrael as the nation of Hashem.

Throughout our long and tumultuous history, we have been attacked, murdered, raped and kidnapped for many “reasons”. And behind all of them is the the truth that we represent the possibility for humanity to transcend the violence and hedonism that has defined most of history.

We are the people who taught the world that Hashem is real, His Torah is true and He cares about the things we do.

We don’t know what this Shabbos will bring. Perhaps our brave soldiers will once again engage in full-scale combat. Perhaps we will see the surrender of our enemies and the return of our brothers and sisters from inhumane captivity.

Either way, our goal remains the same: Ensuring that we, in our own lives, are closing our gateways to Gehinom. If we are successful, perhaps we will soon merit the swift end to all those who attempt to deny the destiny of Hashem’s People. When that day comes, the gates of Hell will finally slam shut for good – ביום ההוא יהיה ה’ אחד ושמו אחד.