Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

Another week, another failed round of negotiations.

Despite the deep desire of the State of Israel to bring the hostages home, our nation is left negotiating with terrorists and murderers. Our enemies have proven, once again, that their goals have not changed. They have no interest in peace, safety, security or liberty; not for their people or for our ours.

It’s a heart wrenching predicament when the lives of our loved ones are in the hands of people who want us all dead.

Tragically, this is not the first time in Jewish history where we have found ourselves at the mercy of our tormentors. Indeed, it is paradigmatic of our experience in exile. Throughout the generations this story has repeated itself: Regardless of our wealth, wisdom, political affiliations and connections, we have been held back from taking the reins and directing our own future.

The pain and frustration of our current situation, however, might be greater than ever before. Simply put, as a nation, we are more capable today than anytime in the past two millennia. Hashem has given us a State, an army, and access to wealth and technology on a scale that we have never enjoyed before. But all of this success does nothing to mitigate the frustrations we feel being stuck as we are right now. If anything, it only exasperates our anguish.

So we resort to bickering and nitpicking with each other. We argue about the nuances of politics, policies and parties. We read and write and post and share about who or what might carve out a little bit of light in this darkness.

But perhaps we are looking at this the wrong way; because the path to success in negotiating our national crisis was charted centuries ago...

Let’s take a step back to understand where are right now.

There are seven weeks between Tisha B’av and Rosh HaShana. Seven weeks to take us from the brokenness of exile to declaring Hashem as the King over us and all humanity.

Recognizing the distance that we need to travel, Chazal paved the way for us to bridge this gap; and encoded it in the Haftaros of these weeks, the Shiva D’Nechemta; the seven weeks of comfort.

Calling these “weeks of comfort”, however, minimizes the intensity of the conflict in which we are about to engage. Comfort was the theme of last week. As we emerged from the smoldering rubble of Yerushalayim, Hashem sends the Navi to comfort us – נחמו נחמו עמי, with the knowledge that we are still His nation (as we explained last week).

What is our response this offer of comfort supposed to be?

The Abudraham (סדר העיבור, סדר הפרשיות וההפטרות) explains that this Shabbos the Haftara begins audaciously with our rejection of Hashem’s terms: ‘וַתֹּאמֶר צִיּוֹן עֲזָבַנִי ה – And Tzion says “Hashem has abandoned me!”

We send the Navi back to Hashem with a simple message: we don’t want messengers of comfort. We want the real thing, not a prophet offering condolences. It’s simply not enough. Comfort doesn’t rebuild the Beis HaMikdash. Comfort doesn’t bring the hostages home. Hashem, Your terms have been rejected.

In the words of the Abudraham: איני מתפייסת מנחמת הנביאים – I cannot be appeased with the comfort of the prophets.

But the conversation does not end there.

Next Shabbos (Re’eh), the Navi returns to Hashem to relay our rejection: עניה סוערה לא נוחמה – This impoverished and stormy people will not be comforted.

Hashem takes our response seriously. Once the Nevi’im have failed in comforting the Jewish people, on the following Shabbos (Shoftim), Hashem tells the Navi that He, Himself will be taking over: אָנֹכִי אָנֹכִי הוּא מְנַחֶמְכֶם – I, Myself, will comfort you.

So the Navi returns to us (Ki Seitzei), convinced that his message will be well received. He declares: רני עקרה לא ילדה – “It is time to rejoice, even though you are now childless”.

In our series of Haftaros, this announcement is the only one that gets no response. We stonewall the prophet who tells a grieving mother that it’ll be ok. It’s not ok.

Finally, in the Navi returns (Ki Savo) telling us קומי אורי כי בא אורך – “It is time to rise up, your Light is finally shining”. Hashem is coming now. The pain is coming to an end and the world will make sense.

Ultimately, only in the final days before Rosh Hashana (Nitzavim-VaYelech), when we feel Hashem’s presence return, we will raise our heads exclaiming שׂוֹשׂ אָשִׂישׂ בה’ – I will rejoice in Hashem... כִּי הִלְבִּישַׁנִי בִּגְדֵי־יֶשַׁע – for He has given me clothes of salvation.

That’s the plan. Or at least, that’s the possibility presented to us each year.

This entire exchange, however, seems strange. Doesn’t Hashem want us to be redeemed? Doesn’t He want us to return to Yerushalayim? Why does He force us to plead and negotiate when both parties want the same thing?

Of course we all do.

But in the deepest way, Hashem does’t want us to be comforted by anything less than the Geulah Sheleima. The end of the war is not enough. The safe return of the hostages is not enough. The total defeat of Hamas, Hezbollah and Iran is not enough.

None of this is to say that we won’t accept these victories; we certainly will. We should do everything in our power to assist our leaders and soldiers to continue fighting daily to achieve them. But it’s not enough.

Hashem wants us to truly comprehend that we are negotiating with the Master of the World. And it’s about time that we ask for what we want: תִּתְגַּדַּל וְתִתְקַדַּשׁ בְּתוֹךְ יְרוּשָׁלַֽיִם עִירְךָ לְדוֹר וָדוֹר וּלְנֵֽצַח נְצָחִים – You should be made great and transcendent in Yerushalayim, Your city for all generations and for all eternity.

The question to us is devastatingly simple: Are we sure that we do want what Hashem wants? Perhaps we are not quite there yet. Perhaps, if given the option, we would settle for less and move on with our lives. A little peace, a little tranquility. Is that all we want? Or are we still dreaming of so much more.

These weeks, and this entire year have reminded us that once, long ago, we lost sight of the real vision and purpose of Yiddishkeit, so the Mikdash was taken from us and we have endured the years and terrors of exile.

The Nevi’im are coming to us, offering Divine comfort, and we are firing back: We don’t want your comfort. Not this time.

On the long road from Destruction to Redemption there have been far too many of us who have settled. Time and time again we have gotten comfortable. That’s the pitfall, the trap we must refuse to fall into this time.

This Shabbos, the real negotiations begins.

They will take place inside the hearts and minds of every Jew. They will happens around our Shabbos tables, on our walks to Shul, and during our schmoozes with friends and family.

In this great debate with Hashem and ourselves, we need to be sure that we want the same thing He wants. When He asks us what are we willing to accept, it is time that we should know how to answer.

This Shabbos, Jews throughout the world will wrap up our Sifrei Torah. We will make a bracha on the Haftara, thanking Hashem for sending us his great prophets. And then we will turn to Him to announce that we are rejecting His “compromise”.

This time, we don’t want comfort. We want You.

Bring them home. Bring us all home.

The dark clouds of the three weeks have finally lifted. Meat and wine have returned to the menus, and music fills our homes and cars. The laundry that has piled up is finally getting washed.

With Tisha B’av behind us, the Halacha instructs us to move on.

The Maharil writes that on this Shabbos, Shabbos Nachamu, one should celebrate and enjoy. Doing anything less represents an insufficient Emunah in the coming of Mashiach.

We are to leave Tisha B'av with the hope, faith and yearning that, Be'ezras Hashem, this was our last Tisha B'av. Indeed we find that no communities continue the mourning of Av beyond the 10th day of the month.

But all of this is true for a normal year.

During a normal year, the invitation of the Navi to be comforted on Shabbos Nachamu is a welcome change of pace and focus.

Not this year; this year is different. The horrors of October 7th have not ended. The wounds of war are not only fresh, they are still being inflicted upon the hostages, the Chayalim and so many families from North to South.

On a national level, Klal Yisrael cannot be comforted. The pain is not yet behind us. Like Rachel Imeinu, thousands of Jewish mothers refuse to be comforted רָחֵל מְבַכָּה עַל־בָּנֶיהָ מֵאֲנָה לְהִנָּחֵם עַל־בָּנֶיהָ כִּי אֵינֶנּוּ – Rachel weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted For her children, who are gone.

As the fleishic restaurants reopen, as the music blares once again, as we read Nachamu Nachamu Ami, we wonder whether comfort is really achievable.

Tragically, while this question is new to our generation, it has bothered our ancestors for far longer.

The Sfas Emes (ואתחנן תרנ”ו) broaching these exceedingly difficult emotions, explains that the comfort offered by the Hashem is not an attempt to move on at all.

Instead, Hashem is giving us the tools to continuing moving through:

נחמו נחמו עמי יאמר אלקיכם פי' שיש די באלקותו ית' לנחם בזה על כל הצרות שעוברין עלינו תמיד Be comforted, says Hashem, in the knowledge that you are Mine and I am with you. And in this connection there is comfort for the pain that we are moving through.

It is true, that there is a certain comfort in knowing that the pain is behind us. But there is a different type of comfort that comes with knowing we are not alone; that Hashem is still with us.

This is the comfort that Sapir Cohen spoke about on Tisha B’av when she described Hashem being with her in the tunnels under Gaza. Somehow from the horrors and terrors of Hamas captivity she emerged stronger, empowered and connected to Hashem.

Her incredible Emunah reminds me of story that Chassidim tell about Reb Shmuel Munkis, a chassid of the Baal HaTanya.

It happened that a fire broke started and before anyone could stop it, Reb Shmuel’s home was engulfed in flames. As his family rushed to safety, Reb Shmuel watched all of his worldly possessions consumed by the fire.

When the smoke cleared, he began digging through the rubble, trying to salvage anything that remained, and from everything he owned, all he could find was one bottle of vodka.

He ran to the Beis HaMedrash and called everyone to make a l'chaim with him as he danced around the shul singing “She'lo asani goy – Thank you Hashem for making me a Jew.”

His friends and colleagues assumed that he had gone crazy.

“No,” he explained, “You don’t get it. If I were not Jewish, Chas V'Shalom, and my home burned down, then my idols, my gods, everything I valued would have burned along with it. But Hakadosh Baruch Hu is everywhere. I still have Hashem.”

Shabbos Nachamu is not coming to mitigate or manage our national trauma, it comes to strengthen us by showing us who we are, and Who stands beside us.

When Tisha B'av takes everything away, we can still find HaKadosh Baruch Hu in our live.

On Tisha B'av morning, we don't wear tefillin, we don't learn Torah, we don't even greet each other. We are forced to ask ourselves: Without my external displays of Judaism, my rituals, practices, community and friends, do I still have a relationship with Hashem?

The answer, נחמו נחמו עמי, is that the essence of who we are, the most irreducible part my being, is that I am a Jew. No one can take that away from us.

Thus Moshe Rabbeinu explains in our parsha, that even in the most difficult times, during exile and hardship:

וּבִקַּשְׁתֶּם מִשָּׁם אֶת־ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ וּמָצָאתָ But from there you will seek the Hashem your God; and you will find Him...

The Yid HaKadosh of Pshischa would explain that Hashem hands a “Shtar-Chov”, a promissory note, to each and every Jew. On it, it reads: If you look for HaKadosh Baruch Hu you'll find Him, no matter where you are, no matter what is happening to you or around you.

A number of years ago, man wrote to the Lubavitcher Rebbe about his concern for his young granddaughter who was flying from London to New York.

He decided to request the Rebbe’s blessing for the child, who was “traveling as an unaccompanied minor.”

In response, the Rebbe simply crossed out the prefix ‘un’ in the word “unaccompanied” and added the phrase “...by Hashem.”

The man’s note was returned to him, now stating: “My granddaughter is traveling accompanied by Hashem.”

This is the comfort of Shabbos Nachamu for a nation that cannot be comforted. Hashem is promising us that He’s not going anywhere; He’s here with us, ready and waiting to dry our tears and take us home. May we merit to see it soon.

Following the news this week is a bizarre experience. All of humanity is in the middle of a story right now; a story that that we are writing and reading simultaneously. Analysts, pundits and talking heads, of course, are trying to make sense of it all, as if they’re looking from the outside in. Each one trying to predict the next moves by explaining some underlying motivations.

But with all the creative conjectures, there is little possibility of objective analysis. Each suggestion is based on personal perspectives, political agendas and partisan vantage points.

People are talking about proxy wars between the West and Russia. Trade wars between the US and China, control of shipping lanes and the cost of oil. Perhaps, some argue, it’s all ultimately about the future of the dollar as a the world's principal reserve currency.

I have no doubt that all of these arguments have merit. Maybe the war between Israel and Iran is indeed just a pawn on some massive international chess board.

Even in Chutz La’aretz, oceans away from our homeland, we feel the pain, stress and tension of our brothers and sisters. Our war, the one our nation is fighting right now, is far greater than any news outlet or podcast could imagine.

But it doesn’t feels that way to us. Since October 7th we have been oscillating between the worst horrors of antisemitic persecution, and the greatest hopes of national redemption.

The news stations cannot possible imagine the depths of these emotions; these fears and these dreams. If nothing else, the past ten months has confirmed that we are different.

Explaining and understanding that difference is not always easy but it all starts with children.

It’s no secret that “The West” is steadily shrinking. Women in affluent counties are having fewer and fewer children. In the United States, the total fertility rate was 1,616.5 births per 1,000 women in 2023. In fact, the only “western country” currently to have a fertility rate above replacement is Israel (OECD data).

There are many contributing factors to this sharp decline in family size. But as a society, the reason that people are not having children is simply because raising kids is hard. Couple this truth with the rampant cynicism about the planet and humanity as a whole, and one quickly arrives at the conclusion that there is little benefit to bringing more children into the world.

More than ever before, the choice to raise a family is the choice to believe that there is more to this world than the latest narcissistic hedonism trending on social media.

This is why Jews have children. It is not just the fulfillment of a religious obligation. We believe in the possibility and positivity of humanity. We believe that the best is yet to come. We believe that even if we don’t get to see it, perhaps our children will.

A secular life might be wonderful, enjoyable and personally meaningful to an individual. But it cannot, and does not inspire the desire to perpetuate and grow. Ultimately, the long term results of secularism is the end of secularist society.

But the Islamic world is also growing.

Islam is expanding because they too believe in a future for humanity. Their vision for the world, however, is radically different to ours.

And this is the war that no one is talking about.

At its core, Klal Yisrael is not simply fighting for the safety and security of the State of Israel. And we are not simply campaigning for the end of anti-semitism. The real war is for the future of the world and our place within it.

Truthfully, however, these are two distinct battle fields and two separate fights. But these are not new challenges; they are as ancient as Jewish history itself.

Our fight with the West is answering the question “Why should anyone care at all?” It was Esav who first coined this challenge: הִנֵּה אָנֹכִי הוֹלֵךְ לָמוּת וְלָמָּה־זֶּה לִי בְּכֹרָה – As he says to Yaakov, “I am going to die anyway, so of what use is my birthright to me?” Why should you care about anything more than the here and now?

To win this fight, our Avoda is to continue doing what Jews have done for generations; defiantly investing our future. We raise families, teach Torah, build communities, and we work to creative a better world for our children.

Our war with Islam however, requires a different and bolder approach.

Chazal (רש”י על בראשית כ״א:ט׳) tell us that Yishmael was banished from the house of Avraham because he lifted his bow and took aim at Yitzhak. Rather than share the future with his brother, Yishmael sought to take it all.

Yishmael’s argument with Yitzchak, then and now, is all about the future. Most importantly: Who will control it? It’s a fight about the legitimate heir to legacy of Avraham Avinu, and which nation will rule Eretz Yisrael. Ultimately, it’s a debate over who will unify the world in recognizing and serving One God.

This war is being fought with missiles, planes, tanks and soldiers. It’s fought with snipers, espionage and counter-intelligence.

But make no mistake, this war is not just about who has a better army. It’s about determining whether the future of humanity will operate with the value system of Yitzchak or the value system of Yishmael.

If you listen to the rhetoric of our enemies, it’s clear that they know what they are fighting for. Over three thousand years later, they echo the same sentiment; still seeking to murder us rather than share any piece of the land of Israel, or indeed the world.

To truly win this war, it is not enough for us to daven, fight, and provide support to our heroes in Tzahal. All of these things are important and essential. To win, however, we cannot hunker down and wait a generation or two for it to be over.

In these worrying and tense days, our Avoda is to rededicate ourselves to demonstrating the values that we wish for our children, the same values that define us as the true heirs of Avraham Avinu.

The task ahead is as simple as it is profound, as Hashem Himself explains: לְמַעַן אֲשֶׁר יְצַוֶּה אֶת־בָּנָיו וְאֶת־בֵּיתוֹ אַחֲרָיו וְשָׁמְרוּ דֶּרֶךְ ה’ לַעֲשׂוֹת צְדָקָה וּמִשְׁפָּט – Avraham is the one who will instruct his children and his home to keep the way of Hashem by doing what is just and right.

The Malbim (באור המילות על ישעיהו א׳:כ״ז) crystalizes this charge: Righteousness means our working on our relationship with Hashem; Justice means looking out for each other.

As people and as a nation, this is our greatest weapon: The confidence to know what we are fighting for and the commitment to build a world according to Ratzon Hashem. From there will come our safety, security, honor and prestige. But it starts with each of us and the work that we are willing to do.

As the Navi promises us this Shabbos: Tzion will be redeemed with justice, and those who return, with righteousness – צִיּוֹן בְּמִשְׁפָּט תִּפָּדֶה וְשָׁבֶיהָ בִּצְדָקָה.

There are two versions of our immediate future: One where this Tisha B’av marks another year of tears and morning. Or perhaps, we will finally merit the end of our pain, and the fulfillment of our national destiny.

That choice, however, will not made by politicians. It’s given over to me and to you. In a world of total uncertainty it is us who decide what the next few days will bring.

Hashem should give us all the courage to imagine the future He wants it to be; and the strength to spend our lives working to make it happen.

In Zalman Jaffe’s diary, “My Encounter with the Rebbe,” he records a casual remark of the Rebbetzin regarding the schedule and worth ethic of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:

The Rebbetzin disclosed to us that the Rebbe would be enjoying a few days’ “vacation” during the upcoming week, when he would be able to catch up on his reading, including my diary.

“Where is the Rebbe going on vacation?” I enquired.

“Oh,” replied the Rebbetzin, “he is not going anywhere. Instead of retiring to bed at 3:00am or 4:00am in the morning, he will be able to do so at 1:00am!”

These almost tangential words stand as a testament to the Rebbe’s superhuman commitment to his mission. They have burrowed their way into my mind, and forced me to examine my own discipline and commitment. More than ever, as we enter this vacation season, these thoughts have resurfaced.

For the Rebbe, it was clear that anything more than this meager allowance was a frivolous indulgence. Famously, in over five decades of leadership, the Rebbe barely ever left Crown Heights.

Perhaps you might be thinking “that’s not healthy”, “there’s no way that I could live like that” or “Hashem doesn’t expect that of you or me.” And you’d probably be right. Such a life is exceeding rare. These were the Rebbe’s personal standards; standards to which he did not hold his Chassidism or even his Shluchim.

Nevertheless, the Rebbe’s example gives us the opportunity to challenge ourselves: What are our standards? How much vacation do we need? What are we trying to achieve when we take a break? Are we even trying to achieve anything?

For most of the Western World, these questions themselves are missing the point. Vacations are designed, advertised and celebrated as a chance to rest, relax and recharge. There are no goals, no “achievements” other than to not be working.

Vacation is touted as the reward one earns in exchange for the months or years we have been working. Depending on one’s expendable income, the capacity to relax and enjoy might be enhanced by delicious and exotic foods, getting pampered in luxurious accommodations and enjoying memorable experiences. At the very least, our vacations are supposed to allow for some kind of escape from our daily responsibilities.

If we’re being honest, I think that this is exactly what we’re all looking for as well. These are our vacation aspirations.

Practically, this presents us with a problem, because it means that our dreams and aspirations are in stark contradiction with our often stated position that “there is no time off from Avodas Hashem”.

I don’t doubt that you agree with this sentiment. None of us think that we should take off time from being Avdei Hashem. Perhaps, you’ll argue, one can certainly rest and relax as an Eved Hashem! On a fundamental level, I don’t disagree, but things have quickly become more complicated than we’d like to admit. And without some serious consideration, there are pitfalls that we are guaranteed to encounter ourselves as Bnei Torah, and certainly regarding our kids.

Let’s talk about kids first.

As caring and committed parents, we know that a break from carpools and homework should never translate to a laxity in Torah and Mitzvos. But this is easier said than done.

During the school year we outsource many of aspects of chinuch and parenting to our wonderful Rebbeim, Moros and Schools. They take care of davening, learning, reading, practicing skills, wearing tzitzis, tefillin and attending minyanim.

Barring some obvious problems, we aren’t always great at keeping tabs on our children’s religious performance and growth. This naturally leads to a reality where, as the summer begins we aren’t always aware of where our kids are holding. How much of davening do they know? How connected are they to the words of Tefillah? What do they enjoy learning?

“It’s cool, my kid loves parsha!” But what exactly do they do in parsha class? How do we replicate some part of that experience? Do we know how to learn with our children?

And without clear guidelines of how to do it, we are reluctant to schedule any of our precious vacation minutes on these tasks.

When we don’t know how teach the parsha, most often, we concede: “I have no idea what to do here. But it’s ok they’re going to camp in a week or two. Not such a big deal if we don’t do so much davening and learning this week. After all... it’s vacation!”

The next time we blink, our kid is in camp, slowly developing the understanding that Avodas Hashem is a school or camp endeavor. Home becomes a place devoid of religious commitment.

And what about us as adults?

When pressed to choose between Avodas Hashem and relaxation, which are we inclined to pick?

It’s an uncomfortable questions, but we should ask it. Does more time on vacation means more focused Tefillah and more iyyun in the Daf? Are we using the time to be more intentional with our chessed and more attentive in our relationships? Or perhaps the moment we are outside of our regular schedules and environments, we tend to rationalize our laxities? “...After all, don’t we deserve a vacation as well?”

I am by no means trying to pass judgment for the way you choose to spend your summer. If anything, this is a public self-critique; an observation I had about my own Avodas Hashem.

Throughout the year, with the pressures of school, events, schedules and deadlines, my focus during davening is not always where I want it be. It’s an area where I want to do better. Of course, what better time to work on it than when things slow down and the summer arrives? But even in the past three days I’ve caught myself cutting a little too much slack. “It’s been a tough year, after all...”

This week it hit me: if I rationalize my lack of kavanah “because it’s vacation now”, then there will never be a time for me to improve.

The same concern is true regarding the chinuch of our children and the attention we give our spouses. It applies equally to our relationship with Hashem and observance of His mitzvos. It applies to every aspect of our personal, religious, and emotional growth and our general wellbeing.

Once we notice the pattern, it becomes easy to spot the Yetzer Hara lurking around the corner.

Have you ever decided to get back on a healthy diet and excursive routine when the summer arrives? Despite these best intentions, perhaps you’ve also found that the temptation of delicious foods and inconsistent schedules makes it embarrassingly easy to rationalize another delay? “I’ll start when we get back home... As soon as the kids are back in school.”

My point here is not, Chas V’Shalom, to demonize vacations, but simply to demonstrate that the summer offers us the unique opportunity to honestly audit our excuses.

The Torah tells us this Shabbos that Aharon kindled the Menora as Hashem had instructed Moshe. Rashi, quoting the Medrash explains that this was high praise:

לְהַגִּיד שִׁבְחוֹ שֶׁל אַהֲרֹן שֶׁלֹּא שִׁנָּה This is stated in order to tell the praise of Aaron — that he did not deviate from God's command.

But how is this praise? Do we really expect that Aharon HaKohen would disregard any aspect of what Hashem told Moshe?

The Mei HaShiloach explains: Rashi is telling us that Aharon never ever deviated from his commitment and never lost the excitement that he felt on that first day. He never made excuses, got bored, or passed up the opportunity to light the Menora.

The Ramban writes that Aharon’s sons could certainly have filled in. Despite this, Aharon lit the Menorah himself for the rest of his life.

He never took a break, because he didn’t want to.

That was the secret to the Rebbe’s vacation schedule. When you truly believe in the value and importance of your Avoda, there is nothing greater than ensuring that you can and will always do it.

Perhaps that’s our Avoda this summer as well.

Take the time to examine, discover and decide what it is that you could never take a vacation from. No matter when, where or how, what’s your mission? What’s your Menorah?

The Rama (או”ח תצ”ד ג) writes in Shulchan Aruch that:

ונוהגין לשטוח עשבים בשבועות בבית הכנסת והבתים זכר לשמחת מתן תורה

We have the custom to spread out grass/flowers on Shavuos in the shul and in houses, to recall the happiness of the receiving of the Torah.

The commentaries explain the origin of this custom: The Medrash tells us that when Matan Torah occurred, Mount Sinai blossomed and grew grass and flowers.

The source for this Medrash is derived from the Pasuk commanding the Jewish people to ensure that their cattle and sheep shouldn't graze on Mount Sinai. If the cattle need to be prevented from grazing, it must mean that there was something to graze.

All of this is to say that our custom of placing flowers in Shul and at home seems to be, at best, a tangential detail.

Adding to the peculiarity, there is a single chapter in Shulchan Aruch dedicated to the laws of Shavuos, and in that chapter the Rama makes only two comments regarding Shavuos customs: We have a custom of eating milk products, and decorating with grass and flowers.

Taking a step back, we could be forgiven for assuming that there are far more significant events that occurred during Matan Torah: The fire, lightening, smoke and awe inspiring revelation of Hashem’s presence. This great festival of the giving of the Torah might best be captured by communal Talmud Torah, or perhaps by unique Tefillos. Of course, over the generations the customs of Tikkun Leil Shavuos have indeed become standard. Yet, in the Shulchan Aruch, it is this obscure Medrash and practice that takes center stage.

The Chidushei HaRim notes, however, that there is a far older connection between Shavuos and grass and flowers.

The Torah tells us that when Moshe Rabbeinu was born, his mother tried desperately to hide him at home. Yet, by the end of his first three months she could no longer guarantee his safety. She prepared a small basket and placed him inside.

That little basket was then hidden in the Nile river:

וַתָּשֶׂם בָּהּ אֶת־הַיֶּלֶד וַתָּשֶׂם בַּסּוּף עַל־שְׂפַת הַיְאֹר׃ She put the child into it and placed it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile.

For a few tense hours, those reeds hid Moshe from prying Egyptian eyes, until Pharaoh’s daughter would find him them.

Moshe Rabbeinu was born on the seventh of Adar. The day he was placed into river Three months later, was the seventh day of the month of Sivan, and exactly 80 years later, Moshe Rabbeinu ascended Har Sinai to receive the Torah, as the mountain bloomed with the grass and flowers that had saved his life.

We, the Jewish people, owe our exodus, our salvation and Matan Torah to those reeds.

Decorating our homes and shuls is an expression of our great Hakaras Hatov, our gratitude and humility. This explains the reason for the custom, but it still does not explain the centrality of it.

Perhaps was could suggest that reason we have taken on this practice is hinting at hidden truth, all too relevant to our lives today.

Matan Torah was, by all accounts, terrifying. There was fire, lightening and the sound of the Shofar, as the nation trembled in the camp. Moshe begins to ascend this mountain of fire. In this moment, Klal Yisrael is being bound to our eternal destiny, with all of the pain and pleasure that being Jewish will entail for all time.

And in that moment, Hashem reminds Moshe and us that beyond the fear and the fire, He has never stopped holding his hand. “Do you remember when you were a baby. Do you remember that terrifying day when you cried alone in the river? Do you remember how I held you then until you were saved? I’ve never stopped holding you.”

“See Moshe, I don’t need a river to grow those flowers. See here in the desert, I can do the same thing. Even in this place of desolation, I’m here for you.”

The great secret of Matan Torah is that hidden beneath all of the fire, smoke, noise and lightening of the Torah, is beauty and growth.

That's what Hashem wanted to show us at Mount Sinai, and what we aim to show our children and ourselves. Hidden beneath the awesome challenges and demands of the Torah is an immeasurable sweetness; a kaleidoscope of colors and beauty.

Hashem should help us to receive His Torah this Shavuos; with all of the details and demands, the rules and requirements. But within that, to see His blossoming flowers, His grass growing miraculously in the desert. Indeed, its the first word He said to us: אנכי – I am giving My Soul to You.

We should feel His hand holding ours, keeping each of us safe until we are all finally free.

We are standing just a few days before Matan Torah. Each of us, individually, is gathering at the foot of the mountain. We have almost completed counting the 50 days since we left Egypt.

But this year, it appears that the count to Sinai has paled in significance to the count of days since the war began. The count of the hostages still held in enemy hands. The count of the those who have given their lives in defense of our land.

Counting is a fraught process. Indeed, the Torah prohibits us from counting Jews.

Assigning numbers to Jews conjures frightening historical nightmares. And yet, we are beginning Sefer Bamidbar – which Chazal refer to as Sefer HaPikudim – the book of Counting (or Numbers). In this Sefer, the very first charge Hashem issues to Moshe is to count the nation.

When is it ok to count? When is it forbidden?

To understand this contradiction, we need to examine the root of the problem: What exactly is wrong with counting?

Chazal (בבא מציעא מב א) explain:

אמר רבי יצחק: אין הברכה מצויה אלא בדבר הסמוי מן העין Rabbi Yitzchak says: Bracha, blessing, is only found in those things that remain hidden from the eye.

Rabbeinu Bachya (שמות ל׳:י״ב) explains that the world is filled with miracles. Small instances when Hashem reaches out to us, and makes things work in our favor.

We’ve all had days or moments that seem uniquely serendipitous.

Sometimes, we make every light while rushing to that important appointment. Sometimes we guess the right answer on the multiple choice test – just enough to score an A. Sometimes the plane is also delayed, as we sit sweating behind a stalled truck on the highway. Sometimes the right person picks up the phone unexpectedly.

Sometimes life seems to have just enough mystery that we can see Hashem's hand. But the moment we insist on measuring, we offer God an ultimatum: Either remove His hand, or perform an open miracle. And not all of us merit open miracles.

By rejecting the urge to measure so precisely, we invite Hashem into our lives. So what if the chances are slim? If Hashem wants it, He'll find a way to make it work. This, of course, is Hashem's bracha to Avraham: Your children will be like the stars of the Heavens – impossible to measure.

Why then, would Hashem instruct Moshe to count us? The opening of our Sefer is perplexing:

שְׂאוּ אֶת רֹאשׁ כל עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לְמִשְׁפְּחֹתָם לְבֵית אֲבֹתָם בְּמִסְפַּר שֵׁמוֹת כל זָכָר לְגֻלְגְּלֹתָם.

Take the sum of all the congregation of the children of Israel, by their families, by their fathers' houses, according to the number of names...

If we are indeed beyond measure and if counting removes Hashem's hand, how could Hashem command such a thing?

This question is addressed by Rashi in his opening comments on the Parsha:

מתוך חיבתן לפניו מונה אותן כל שעה Out of His great love, Hashem counts us at every opportunity.

Rashi is not simply addressing the surprising frequency of censuses in the Torah. Instead, he is offering a rationale behind the concept in its entirety. Hashem is not calculating the total number of discrete individuals in the nation.

There is a difference between measuring and counting. The subtly is not linguistic; it’s a question of intent. The prohibition is to measure. But Hashem is commanding us to count. Measuring seeks to evaluate sum; the size of thewhole. But counting sees each item as an individual.

Whenever the Torah instructs Moshe to count the Jewish people, it is only to educate that each person counts.

The Shela HaKodosh explains: The language of the Torah is beautiful and specific: שאו את ראש – to raise up each head. That is to say, each person is a head, a leader, in charge and in control of our lives. This unique perspective is further educated through the Torah's language of במספר שמות – a count of names. This is a roll-call, not a tally.

This also explains why Hashem, in His infinite knowledge, doesn't simply tell Moshe the total, but instead commands him to count. The purpose here is to make each person feel important, and that can only be done by actively counting, not simply measuring.

The Emunas Yisrael of Grodsisk (the nephew of the Aish Kodesh) teaches that before the Jewish people could receive the Torah, Hashem gathered us by the mountain and told us:

וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ And you shall be to me a kingdom of priests, and a holy nation.

This was not a call issued to one person or one group. This uniqueness was gifted to each and every Jew. It’s a powerful weapon in the hands of The Yetzer Hara that whispers that we might not belong. It’s an answer to the voice that says “You didn't get the right education... You weren't born into the right family... You don't have the background, the yichus, the financial means... You don't belong.”

This promise is our greatest defense against the voices that cry “this type of Jew doesn’t count.” Not true, says Hashem: You're all my people. Each and every Jew.

Seferias HaOmer is an exercise in learning how to count. We are learning how to make each day count and how to see that each Jew counts.

So we count the days, we count the weeks. We count the months in tunnels under Gaza, and the soldiers that have fallen. We count them because they count. Because it matters. It all matters, all the time.

This counting does not remove Hashem’s Hand from our lives. On the contrary, by displaying our love, care and concern for each of His children, we are inviting Hashem to play a greater and more revealed role. By taking our days seriously, we are indicating our appreciation of the great gift of time.

Most importantly, we count as a statement of purpose. We need these days; we need these Jews, because Hashem world is incomplete without them. Once again, we will need to stand unified at the foot of the mountain preparing to receive the Torah. But there can be no unity until we see that every Jew counts.

So we keep on counting. Even if we missed a day, we keep on counting.

Even if we misspoke, messed up, and mistreated another Jew. We keep counting each other, so we can count on each other.

Let’s work on becoming the people Hashem can count on us as well.

The American anthropologist, Margaret Mead, was one asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture.

Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed. Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food.

You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal. A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts.

With Broken Legs

Parshas Bechukosai begins with the condition: אם בחקתי תלכו –“If you will walk in my laws...” The Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh explains that this directive is quite simply, that we make Hashem an important and relevant constant presence in our lives.

What do we get in return for such a life? The Torah continues: Children, health, safety, stability, peace and prosperity. A good life is possible. A good life attainable. And it all begins with what or rather, Who, was are walking with.

But the Torah describes the opposite as well; the world in which things don't go as planned. It happens a personal and national levels. Often without ill intent or malevolence, butn the stress and exhaustion of a daily life it get difficult to push ourselves to walk with Hashem. Our legs begin to tire. Not to mention that the places we have sometimes been going are not exactly the places that we wanted to bring Him along.

This life leads to the קללות, the curses of this weeks Parsha. They detail the end of sovereignty, of security, of peace and prosperity.

We know these curses too well. We have lived them for millennia, and we have experienced them all too palpably this year. The uncertainty, the fear and anti-semitism since October 7th are all part of the curse of living in this broken world.

Putting the Curses Behind Us

One of the lesser known rules of our Torah Reading Calendar, is that Parshas Bechukosai must always be read before Shavuos. (Which is the reason for the many double-parshiyos in Vayikra.) This Halacha originates in the Talmud (Megillah 31), and quite simply, it means that we cannot proceed to receive the Torah on Shavuos without putting these curses behind us.

But how?

We cannot miraculously fix this world. How can we put it behind us with our brave Chayalim still on the front lines, and the hostages still in horrific captivity?

How are we to finish this parsha, yet another Sefer since Simchas Torah, exclaiming חזק חזק ונתחזק – we should be stronger!? How?

We are Worth Saving

The Rebbe of Izbitz, Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner in the Mei HaShiloach (ח”א סוף בחקותי) teaches that our answer is found at the very end of the parsha. It's the lesson of the obscure mitzvah of Erchin:

היינו אחר פרשות התוכחה נתן הש”י מבטח עוז לישראל ונתן להם פ' ערכין, היינו שיוכל האדם לפדות עצמו מכל דבר

After the rebuke and the curses, Hashem gives us powerful confidence in the mitzvah of Erchin; to know that a person can rescue themselves from anything and everything.

After we read of the tragedies that will befall the Jewish people. Every curse and calamity that we might suffer; that we have suffered, that we are suffering, the Torah teaches us about Erchin.

What is Erchin? It’s the service by which a person donates their own value, their fields, or animals to the Beis HaMikdash. The Mei HaShiloach explains: No matter what happens us, we never lose our intrinsic worth. Each person is inherently valuable to Hashem and to the world.

The Rebbe continues: The Torah is also declaring here that one person can donate the value of another person to the Beis HaMikdash. Which means that even if one Jew is struggling to find their value, another Jew can help them, elevate them and value them.

The clearest way out of the curses is to look at ourselves and each other, wounded, broken, exiled and in pain, and say: “I will stay here with you. You are worth saving.”

In Crown Heights, there was a Jew, Yankel, who owned a bakery. He survived the camps. He once told the story, You know why it is that I’m alive today?

I was a kid, just a teenager at the time. We were on the train, in a boxcar, being taken to Auschwitz. Night came and it was freezing, deathly cold, in that boxcar. The Germans would leave the cars on the side of the tracks overnight, sometimes for days on end without any food, and of course, no blankets to keep us warm, he said.

Sitting next to me was an older Jew this beloved elderly Jew – from my hometown I recognized, but I had never seen him like this. He was shivering from head to toe and looked terrible. So I wrapped my arms around him and began rubbing him, to warm him up. I rubbed his arms, his legs, his face, his neck. I begged him to hang on.

All night long; I kept the man warm this way. I was tired, I was freezing cold myself, my fingers were numb, but I didn’t stop rubbing the heat on to this mans body. Hours and hours went by this way.

Finally, the night passed, morning came, and the sun began to shine. There was some warmth in the cabin, and then I looked around the car to see some of the other Jews in the car. To my horror, all I could see were frozen bodies, and all I could hear was a deathly silence.

Nobody else in that cabin made it through the night they died from the frost. Only two people survived: the old man and me. The old man survived because somebody kept him warm; I survived because I was warming somebody else.

When you warm other peoples hearts, you remain warm yourself. When you seek to support, encourage and inspire others; then you discover support, encouragement and inspiration in your own life as well.

As the summer arrives, Hashem is asking us to ensure that we spend our time resting, recovering, and taking care ourselves. But not to the exclusion of walking with Him. Not to the exclusion of walking with each other.

And so long as we do, He promises that He’ll walk with us as well.

As kids, they told us “it’s not about winning or losing, it’s how you play the game.”

But if we’re honest, beneath that shallow veneer of politeness and false humility, everyone plays to win. “How you play the game” is a sentiment reserved only for losers. For winners, it has always been about winning.

Emotionally, when there’s no chance that we’re gonna win, we don’t want to compete. And why should we? The humiliation of losing stings. Why risk the pain and the shame?

The unspoken secret of success, however, is that it winning is far more rare than we’d like to believe. We usually only know about the winners and their wins. There are few people who publicize their failures – unless, of course, it’s part of that great story explaining how they arrived at success.

But in the deepest recesses of our hearts, we fail far more often than we’d ever want to admit. We fail at living up to our commitments, our hopes and our dreams. We fail our families, our friends and ourselves. We forget, we get distracted and we run late. We miscalculate and misstep. We give up and give in to our impulses.

None of these failures will ever make it into the grand retelling of our life story. Even the most impressively successful people lie in bed from time to time ruminating on the failures that they’d never share in a TED talk.

Most often, we try to avoid those mental places of shame, humiliation and regret. When the memories arise, we run from them, we hide from them, we distract our minds from them. But if they exist, as they universally do, then this too must be part of Avodas Hashem.

The secret of this work is revealed this week of Sefiras Ha’Omer – the week of “Hod”.

Each week of the Omer is a chance to work on a particular character trait. (As evidenced by the words next to the count if the day in every Siddur.) Some of these ideas are well understood and well developed in contemporary society. We know how to work on Chessed. We give, volunteer, think of others and judge people favorably. Gevura is also discussed quite openly. Gevura is the world of structure, discipline and self-control.

But by this fifth week of Sefiras HaOmer, we have far fewer intuitions about how to work on “Hod”. On the one hand, Hod is beauty, radiance and illumination, as the pasuk (תהילים קד) tells us: הוֹד וְהָדָר לָבָשְׁתָּ – Hashem is clothed in glory and majesty.

On the other hand, Hod is also gratitude, acquiescence, admission and confession. (As in the words for מודים and ווידוי.)

Somehow, the same word simultaneously conveys radiance and defeat; and these two worlds and words collide on Lag Ba’Omer, the fifth day of the fifth week, the day of Hod She’B’Hod.

Hod She’B’Hod is the bottom of the barrel. It’s weakness within weakness, defeat within defeat. Abject failure. This Midah is the point in which humility gives in to humiliation, where the shame and pain and blame become unbearable. It’s the place of damaged lives and broken relationships. It’s the world of irreparable loss.

So where is the beauty? Where is the greatness?

Perhaps it is best understood by a Halacha in Parshas Behar – the laws of Yovel. The Torah tells us that every fifty years, land which has been sold is returned to the its original owners. Of course, the pesukim explain, this radically alters the real estate market, and “buying” property is little more than a temporary mandate to use it until the Yovel year.

But Reb Shlomke of Zhvill explains that this Halacha is transformative for every family and for society as a whole. Yovel means that even if you failed so miserably that you were forced to sell your ancestral homestead, this does not define your legacy. Even the most egregious mistakes in life and business can and will be undone. Your grandchildren will not need to suffer your failures.

Likewise, in the Yovel year, even slaves who willingly gave up their freedom re-enter the Jewish community as free men. Even someone who cowardly chose a life certainties and securities in subservience is reinstated as a self-determining citizen.

Rav Kook writes that Yovel offers restoration, return and restitution even for a person who hasn’t done Teshuva. It’s the promise of Hashem that one day, you will return.

Yovel is the world that transcends all failure; the place where it doesn’t exist any longer. At the core of our existence, being a loser is never systemic; it is always an accident.

Yovel teaches us that there is something about us, something inside of us that not even we can destroy. And given enough time, everything around it will heal; eventually that magnificent part of who we really are will shine. Everything else is simply incidental; it’s not who we are.

This is expressed by The Rama MiPano who teaches us that every prohibition in the Torah is written ambiguously. For example, when the Torah says לא תגנוב – “Do not steal”, it could also be saying “you wont steal.” In the deepest way, both are true. You are not allowed to steal, and the part of you that is really you will never steal. “Real You” couldn’t and wouldn’t; it’s simply not possible.

Sometime, this profound truth can only be understood when we arrive at our lowest points of failure. From that vantage cam we clearly see and state “this is me, and this is my failure; and they are not the same thing.”

Lag Ba’Omer, the day of Hod She’B’Hod is the day we celebrate Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai; the one who taught and carried the tradition of the greatest secrets of the Torah. Where did he discover these secrets? In a cold, dark, lonely cave. In a world of starvation, poverty and persecution.

Indeed, in the Piyyut for Lag Ba’Omer we sing: בִּמְעָרַת צוּרִים שֶׁעָמַדְתָּ, שָׁם קָנִיתָ הוֹדְךָ וַהֲדָרֶךָ – In that rocky cave you stood, there did you acquire your “Hod” – your radiance and beauty.

Since October 7th, we have been living Lag Ba’Omer. In the places of pain and failure and loss and confusion, as we question Hashem, and try to find meaning and purpose and unity, there is a so much beauty to discover.

When the world falls apart, when nothing makes sense, when there are Jews chased and persecuted in caves once more, when friends become enemies, and we have failed ourselves and each other... Even then, Hashem is still here with us.

That’s what Rabbi Shimon discovered in that cave. For thirteen years Hashem was there with him.

May the lights of Lag BaOmer illuminate His presence for us and for all of Klal Yisrael as well.

I don’t know if this story is true, and I don’t remember who I heard it from, some thirty years ago. But the fear it captures was most definitely real, and even though I was not old enough to understand it, I remember those emotions palpably.

It happened in the first week of April, 1994 in Johannesburg. Just a few weeks before South Africa’s first ever democratic, multi-racial election.

Despite the international excitement surrounding this election, and the moral victory over the racism of apartheid, South African Jews were nervous. With Nelson Mandela’s presidency almost guaranteed, many white people in South Africa feared a violent uprising. And while most Jews in South Africa had little in common with the Afrikaans architects of Apartheid, they were still white enough to be afraid.

That year, more South African Jews made Aliyah than in any year since the seventies. But for those who stayed, painful questions arose. What could they do if tensions erupted into violence and civil war?

I remember overhearing some grown-ups talking about it. I remember the worried whispers. They had a backup plan. In the event that the Jewish community was under attack, a Johannesburg golf course had been leveled, in preparation for El-al planes to land to take us home.

Perhaps that was indeed what was planned. Perhaps it was imagination, inspired by the images of the miracles of Operation Solomon just three years earlier. Either way, as a kid, I grew up knowing that there would always be a place for us to run to.

It was almost instinctive.

I knew that if I was ever woken up in the middle of the night and told we needed to flee, there was only one place we would go.

***

The events of the past few weeks and months in the US, have brought me back to those childhood memories. The USA is quite literally two oceans and a hemisphere away from South Africa; yet the tensions feel disquietingly similar.

Of course, we have much to to grateful for. Our communities are booming. Jewish life is vibrant and exciting. But this has happened many times in our history; and to-date, there has never been a place that could claim immunity from the waves of hatred crashing down around us.

On the one hand, the ground beneath our feet is rock solid. But on the other hand, it seem to be moments away from crumbling under us.

I am not an alarmist. I don’t think it’ll come to this, but if the golf courses of Boca Raton are leveled for El-al planes to land, I doubt any of us would hesitate to leave everything behind and fly home.

***

Perhaps I am naive. Perhaps the swift demise of American Jewry is already set in stone. I don’t know. But there is one thing of which we can be certain: At some point in the future, there will be an end to the prominence and power of Jewish America. After all, we’ve seen this movie before; many, many times over. There has never been a country where our people have prospered in exile indefinitely.

The Meshech Chochma (בחקתי יא) summarizes our history in exile, writing that whenever we have gotten too comfortable in some host culture:

שם יבוא רוח סערה עוד יותר חזק, יזכיר אותו בקול סואן ברעש יהודי אתה ומי שמך לאיש, לך לך אל ארץ אשר לא ידעת

A stronger wind will begin to blow there, reminding us with storms and thunder: “You are a Jew! Do you not remember that Hashem has made you who your are today? Leave this place for a land you do not know...”

Perhaps that is where we are today, and hindsight can give us an understanding of the potential dangers ahead. But it cannot give us insight into this moment. Where are we right now? Is the best of US Jewry already behind us? Is this wave of antisemitism the beginning of the end?

Or perhaps, the terror and hatred we are facing today is the worst it will ever be. Perhaps this is the last stop on the road to Redemption.

***

As Jews with Emuna, we know that nothing is beyond the Ribono Shel Olam.

So rather than giving in to despair, let’s imagine a different world for a moment. The world where Hashem will yet answer all of our Tefillos for safety, security and serenity.

Let’s daven that in the coming days, our brave soldiers will finally destroy Hamas and rescue all of the hostages. Let’s daven that the world is finally awakened to bear witness to the horrors the hostages have faced. And that somehow, international opinions will swing as people realize the lies they have been told.

Let’s daven that the impeccable morality of Tzahal becomes so apparent that US politicians across the aisle denounce any connection to Hamas, Iran and radical Islam. That US support of Israel is once again an indisputable bi-partisan priority.

It is my greatest hope and prayer that all of this and so much more comes to pass. I’m sure you feel the same. Perhaps then we might not dread turning on our phones after Shabbos.

But in the deepest recesses of my soul, this return to normal is also my greatest fear.

***

On the day that our tefillos are answered, when we win the war, and our brothers and sisters return, what will happen to us? What will happen to you and me; the Jews of the diaspora?

My greatest fear is that nothing will happen at all.

When normal is restored, I worry that we will simply return to the default settings of our lives in Galus; the lives we have meticulously manicured over decades and generations.

Each one of us has invested our time, money, energy, tefillos and emotions to Klal Yisrael since October 7th. What will happen when Hashem grants us peace?

In place of anxiously scouring the internet for news about the hostages, will we simply fill that time with mindless entertainment and rage-filled politics? The funds we are giving to Israel, will they be diverted back into portfolios and vacations?

In place of tehillim, learning and davening in the merit of Klal Yisrael, will we return to splitting hairs and debating minutia? Will we resume the pursuit solving the ‘pressing questions’ of how best to permit our unquenchable materialism in an acceptable framework of Halacha?

The Ramban at the beginning of Parshas Kedoshim coins the expression נבל ברשות התורה – a degenerate with the permission of the Torah. Such a person might fulfill every dictate and directive of the Shulchan Aruch while living a meaningless, hedonistic life. I dare say, but in the minds of contemporary westerners, this is most likely the most palatable type of observant Jew. (After all, we’re all the same... right?) But the obligation of being Kadosh means that we are different. We are charged with developing and maintaining a real emotional and intellectual connection to Hashem, which inspires every facet our lives and actions.

When normal returns, I am terrified that we will “forget” the hatred and the complicity of this nation’s universities and their leaders. In our relentless pursuit of the American Dream will we proudly return to sending our children to the “prestigious” institutions responsible for cultivating a generation of antisemites? The same institutions who, for decades, have championed a perverse moral code which elevates personal pleasure and narcissistic gratification as their highest values.

The crisis of safety, security and identity that we have faced since October 7th has forced Jews of all stripes to rethink life in exile. And across the spectrum, the results have overwhelmingly deepened our connection to Hashem, Torah, Mitzvos, Eretz Yisral and Klal Yisrael.

Of course, as the weeks became months, some of that inspiration and fire has cooled. Our ideological and political rifts are still painfully present, but Jewish unity is at an all time high. All it takes is a moment of conversation with a Chayal, and we are ready to give everything and anything for another Jew. Perhaps the pain of our circumstance has coerced us into finally understanding that victory can never be achieved while we still harbor animosity and distain for each other.

But when Hashem answers our tefillos, and peace is restored to Israel and to Jews around the world, will we still be yearning for the planes coming to take us home? Or perhaps, when they land on the golf courses of Boca Raton, we might choose to stay behind...

***

This is a crucial moment in the history of our people, our community and ourselves. Hashem has promised us that Klal Yisrael is eternal. But there is no guarantee that you, or I, or our communities will not assimilate and disintegrate into the forgotten dust of human history.

In my humble opinion, there is only one solution: Aliyah.

In the most literal sense, we need to set our sights on building a life for ourselves in Eretz Yisrael. Tethering ourselves to the homeland of the Jewish people is a connection to our national enternal destiny.

Of course, this is easier said than done. But let’s be clear: for those of us who can reasonably transplant their families, doing so is obviously Ratzon Hashem.

L’halacha, the key word here is ’reasonably’.

Each person/family needs to engage in a serious Cheshbon HaNefesh to evaluate their reality, their needs and options. It should go without saying, but it is definitely not Ratzon Hashem to move to Israel if it will negatively impact chunich, shalom bayis, or mental/physical health. It is also not Ratzon Hashem to become a financial burden on others.

But even for those of us who cannot (yet) move our lives physically to Eretz HaKodesh, we are not exempt from living a life of Aliyah.

In its simplest definition, Aliyah means ascent. We are tasked with transforming ourselves, our families and our communities into Bnei Aliyah – people in the constant process of accent.

If our current, most honest assessment, is that Hashem wants us to be in Chutz La’aretz right now, then each of us must ask ourselves why.

Why does Hashem want me here? What is my mission, my tafkid, my shlichus? What is my unique contribution to Hashem’s world here and now in Galus? How can I be engaged in elevating myself and my world even when I am far from home?

Rashi (ישעיהו כ״ו:כ) writes that at the end of time, when Hashem will finally bring this Galus to an close, there will one primary role for you and me: התבונן על מעשיך בחדרי לבך – Consider your deeds, in the chambers of your heart.

On Yom Ha’atzmaut every year, Aliza and I look at each other and ask “is it time to make Aliyah?” I have no doubt that many of you are asking the same questions.

But there is a greater question equally relevant to all of us in the Diaspora as well as in Israel: “It is finally time to become Bnei Aliyah?”

The answer is obvious. There has been no greater moment of clarity in our lifetimes. It’s time to realign our lives, recommit to Ratzon Hashem, to become Bnei Aliyah. It is the only way to ensure that when our time comes, when our planes arrive, we will board without hesitation. הרחמן הוא יוליכנו קוממיות לארצנו – May Hashem bring us home, with our heads held high.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov once told the story:

The king’s star gazer saw that the grain harvested that year was tainted. Anyone who would eat from it would became insane. “What can we do?” said the king. “It is not possible to destroy the crop for we do not have enough grain stored to feed the entire population.”

“Perhaps,” said the star gazer, “we should set aside enough grain for ourselves. At least that way we could maintain our sanity.” The king replied, “If we do that, we’ll be considered crazy. If everyone behaves one way and we behave differently, we’ll be considered the not normal ones.

“Rather,” said the king, “I suggest that we too eat from the crop, like everyone else. However, to remind ourselves that we are not normal, we will make a mark on our foreheads. Even if we are insane, whenever we look at each other, we will remember that we are insane!”

The World of Galus

This perspective has, for the past two-thousand years, been the view of our nation in exile.

There was once a time when the world was sane, when the Jewish people lived securely in our own land, when we were cultural leaders of the world. There was a time that Yerushalayim was the center of morality, ethics and law for the world – כי מציון תצא תורה – from Tzion came for the wellsprings of wisdom.

But then the Beis HaMikdash was destroyed, we were sent into exile and the world became insane. Instead of looking at Klal Yisrael as a source of divine wisdom, moral understanding and compassion in the world, we began to be viewed as vermin, the embodiment of evil, emissaries of the Devil. This insanity became our new reality. The grain of the world became tainted with the poison of exile, with the sickness of anti-semitism.

And we Jews had only one choice. We were forced to eat from that same crop. We too became insane. From being princes of the universe, we became scum of the earth. Dirty Jew, they called us, greedy Jew. And slowly but surely we started to look at ourselves and each other in the same light; desperate, lonely and sad.

As time went on, we longed for the embrace of the nations of the world. Some of us gave up, some of us gave in. Sometimes, we were consoled by their tolerance. We were grateful for the kindness of our saviors, the compassion of our protectors. All the while lamenting how it could be that we became so needy.

But every now and then, we turned to each other, and noticed there was a sign on our forehead, a “Yiddishe Kop”, that reminded us that this was not the way it was meant to be. And so, in secret, the majesty of the Jewish people continued. It was found in the “four amos of Halacha”, in the great writings of Mikra, Mishna, Talmud and Agados. As the Beis Yosef said: מאן מלכי, רבנן – The place of kingship is with the sages. The sign on our heads reminded us that the we were the only sane ones in a world that was growing increasingly more insane.

Every time a Jew was beat up or killed for being Jewish, every time a shul was desecrated, a city destroy, a cartload of books set aflame, we drew further inwards, trying desperately to hold onto sanity, remembering that the world is crazy. We looked to the signs on each others foreheads, and dreamed of a time that we could live beyond the insanity of a world where October 7th was an even an option.

The World of Geulah

But Rebbi Nachman also told a different version of this story (שיח שרפי קודש (ברסלב) א-רעא):

In this version, it was the star gazer who suggested that they would have to eat from the tainted grain, but the king vehemently rejected this. He explained that just because the whole world was crazy, they do not need to, and should not be crazy. And if they would appear to be crazy to the rest of the world, so what?! That is no reason to eat the grain that makes people crazy. Instead, they would prepare what meager grain that could manage for themselves.

This version of the story has had far fewer adherents throughout our history. But in every generation there have been Jews that never gave up on their own majesty, and have insisted on the majesty of the Jewish people. There have always been those who subsisted on tiny amounts of grain from the ancient fields of Yerushalayim rather than eating from the tainted grain of the world. They reached deep into the store houses of the Beis HaMikdash Shel Maalah, and ate meager, lonely meals of Jewish pride.

For these brave souls, every single Jew has always been and will always be a בן/בת מלך – princes and princesses of the King of the Universe. We have never stopped being an אור לגוים – a shining light to the nations of the world.

For those who have never tasted those tainted grains, when faced with the horror, shock and pain of blatant, violent anti-semitism, they did not give up, they did not give in. No excuses were ever accepted.

They gathered together, dreamed of and worked on building a world where Jews were not simply safe in our assimilation, but beacons of hope and light for the world.

In their eyes, “safety and security” were tropes from the world of Galus and equivocations, where we are ashamed of our nation, our Torah and our God.

In the world of majesty, safety and security are not granted by a benevolent host society, they are expected, assumed and obvious.

What Are We Eating?

The question then arrises: How do we know if we have eaten from the tainted grains and gone mad, or if we are still sane?

In this crazy world, I believe there is a simple test; a single question we need to ask ourselves:

Of the myriad opportunities and activities we are offered and engaged in, which ones get our our love, effort and attention? What gets us excited and energized?

A sane Jew is one who knows that Torah and Mitzvos are inherently beautiful, wonderful and amazing. A sane Jew sees themself as privileged to be an Eved Hashem, changing ourselves and the world with every word of Torah and Tefillah. A sane Jew lives with the knowledge that this dollar to tzedaka is meaningful beyond measure. That this perek of tehillim and this daf of gemara in this moment brings us a little closer to Yerushalayim.

The Shelah HaKadosh (תורה שבכתב, משפטים, דרך חיים) explains that the obligation in our Parsha – וחי בהם – “to live with the words of Torah”, means:

אשר יעשה אותם האדם וחי בהם, רצה לומר זריזות, ובכלל זה לעשות בשמחה. אלא הזירוז לעשות אף שאין בידו לגמור כולו

To perform mitzvos with life; with eagerness and joy even if one is fully aware that one will never be able to perform the מצוה in its entirety.

As Pesach ends and we rush for our favorite Chometz, our Avoda is to remember that Matan Torah, the festival of the new grain harvest is just a few weeks away...

Hashem should help us to hold on just a little longer. To escape the madness, abandon the cynicism, to turn away the smorgasbord of tainted grains around us.

He should help us to live as exited, passionate, sane Jews with the knowledge and confidence that the new harvest is just a few weeks away.