Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

Most years, as we begin Sefer Shemos, we tend to skim over the beginning. Rightfully so, I guess. It’s never pleasant to focus on the extremities of our suffering under Egyptian tyranny. We’re excited to get to the good stuff: miracles, revelation and redemption. After all, these things make up the bulk of the narrative, and the far more enjoyable parts of the story. But this year, in particular, it’s difficult to look past the pain.

It seems all too familiar. A nation bent on destroying the Jewish people, with a particular hatred of Jewish babies. This year I find myself thinking less about signs and wonders, and more about the impossibly tumultuous anguish of giving birth to a baby slated to die by royal edict.

How did Yocheved feel? How did Amram feel? How did they cope with the realization that there was no way they could protect their son from the cruelty of being thrown into the nile?

With no way of keeping him safe at home, Yocheved builds him a miniature ark; perhaps it might save him from the flood of hatred.

Imagine her exuberance when Moshe was discovered by the daughter of Pharaoh and when Yocheved was then hired to be his nursemaid. And imagine the pain of that day when her baby was once again taken from her, this time to be raised as an Egyptian.

Imagine the sleepless nights as those parents cried, wondering what was happening to their beautiful child. What hatred and lies he might be hearing about his parents and his people. Would they ever see him again? Perhaps, in their darkest moments they wished that none of this had happened. That he might’ve died as Jew, in infancy, rather than become the adopted grandson of their virulently anti-semitic tormentor.

From our vantage point, with the clarity of hindsight, and the detachment of a few millennia, we can examine, investigate and question a little differently. Indeed, thethe Ibn Ezra does just that, asking: Why did Moshe need to be kidnapped and snatched away from his family? Why did he need to be raised in the palace of Pharaoh?

The Ibn Ezra answers: Perhaps this exposure to royalty would teach him how to become a leader, a king, rather than a slave. Or perhaps it would provide him with the necessary distance from his people that might allow them to revere him and look up to him.

But none of this sufficiently mitigates Yocheved’s tears. Not then, and not now. If its not too heretical to say, perhaps we might dare to ask: With the infinite resources of the Almighty, omnipotent God, surely there was another way for Moshe to become Moshe without this immeasurable pain?

And if we are honest, I think that perhaps this is our question right now as well. Deep in the hearts and minds of every Jew there is a tiny, one-person protest: “Hashem, we know that You have a plan. We believe it, we know it with perfect faith. But in all of the wonders of Your Creation, is there not, perhaps, a possibility that Your goals and aims for Klal Yisrael could be achieved without this hell? Whatever it is that You need us to achieve and become, however You are pushing us to grow, did it really have to be like this?”

In the case of Yocheved, the Ibn Ezra concedes that his best explanations are merely suggestions. We cannot ever fully account for Hashem’s designs:

ומחשבות השם עמקו, ומי יוכל לעמוד בסודו, ולו לבדו נתכנו עלילות

The thoughts of Hashem are deep. Who can comprehend their secrets? To Him alone all actions are accounted.

While we might never be able to understand Hashem’s ways, Chazal revealed to us a few hidden details from the life of Yocheved to help us traverse the murky pain of our generation.

The Talmud (סוטה יב א) tells us of Yocheved’s birth:

דאמר רבי חמא ברבי חנינא: זו יוכבד, שהורתה בדרך ולידתה בין החומות, שנאמר: ״אשר ילדה אותה ללוי במצרים״ — לידתה במצרים, ואין הורתה במצרים.

Yocheved’s conception was on the road, as the family of Yaakov descended to Egypt, and she was born between the walls as it is stated: “And the name of Amram’s wife was Yocheved, the daughter of Levi, who was born to Levi in Egypt.” Her birth was in Egypt, but her conception was not in Egypt.

Ok, so Yocheved was born as Yaakov and his family entered Egypt. But what is the meaning of being was born “between the walls?”

The Mabit, writes in his Beis Elokim (שער היסודות כ”א):

It would be the children of Yocheved: Moshe, Aharon and Miriam, who would one day redeem the Jewish people. They were brought into the world by a mother who lived as the connection between exile and redemption. Her conception was in Eretz Yisrael, devoid of any slavery. But she was born “between the walls” of Egypt; meaning: She was born at the exit of Egypt, the place which Klal Yisrael would stand and anticipate their freedom and redemption.

This place was engrained in her personality and perspective. For the rest of her life, Yocheved saw herself as standing, persisting, suffering and surviving at the center of Jewish history. She lived in the fleeting moments between past and future; between exile and redemption. In the deepest way, Yocheved lived with the knowledge that her story, and our story is never over, it is always in the middle. Be definition, this means that we cannot possibly hope to understand our story since it has not yet reached its climactic finale.

The Rama MiPano (מאמר חקור דין חלק ג פרק ד) writes that Yocheved transcended space and time in the same way as the Aron Kodesh “took up no space”. She existed in the infinitesimally small space “between the walls”, where Galus and Geulah could happen at any moment.

Of course, none of this negates the pain. None of this answers the questions of “Why me? Why this? Why now?” But answering questions was never the goal. To be living at the center of all time and space means that Hashem is holding our hands in the here and now. He is partnering with us in writing this sentence in the story of our lives and the life of Klal Yisrael. If it doesn’t make sense, that’s only because we’re still in the middle.

Perhaps, when the final pages of this chapter are written, we will learn the reasons; the why’s and the how’s of Hashem’s Master-Plan for our lives since October 7th. Or perhaps by then we might finally understand the totally of why Moshe Rabbeinu needed to by raised in the home of Pharaoh. Then again, we might never merit to scratch the surface of the infinite depths of Ratzon Hashem.

But no matter what we do or do not understand, we can live between these walls, fully present, with Hashem at our side, yearning for and anticipating the day when we too will march beyond the walls of exile; together with our brothers and sisters in captivity. Living, crying, laughing, and Be’ezras Hashem, soon celebrating.

As we approach the end of Sefer Bereishis, I cannot help but think back to the last time we finished a book of the Torah. For us in Chutz La’Aretz, it was the day after the world changed. As is the custom of Ashkenazim, we completed Sefer Devarim and cried out “Chazak, Chazak V’Nischazek”.

So many of our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael did not hear those words in Simchas Torah; they were hiding in bomb shelters and stair wells. So many will never hear those words again.

The origins of calling out these three words is somewhat murky. They are not written in the Torah. The custom is discussed by the Rishonim, trying to find a reason for our practice in its various forms. Sefardim call out “Chazak U’Baruch”, and some communities call out “Chazak, Chazak, Chazak.”

It appears, however, that according to all opinions, it is deeply rooted in the practice of Jews across the world and centuries that we conclude a Sefer with a cry of “Strength”.

The Pri Chadash (סי' קל”ט ס”ק י”א) notes this this is because the Talmud (ברכות לב א) tells us that four things always need strengthening: Torah, Good deeds, Tefillah and a Career.

Rav Kook explains that despite the obvious values to these endeavors, without constant work, we tend to let things slip. To this end, as soon as we complete a book of the Torah, we immediately declare that we should be strengthened to continue; we are not resting on our laurels.

But the conclusion of Sefer Bereishis appears to carry an additional message. By all standards, this book ends tragically:

וַיָּמׇת יוֹסֵף ... וַיִּישֶׂם בָּאָרוֹן בְּמִצְרָיִם Joseph died... and was placed in a coffin in Egypt.

The cry for strength at this juncture is not simply to encourage future Torah study; it’s a response to the calamity of the parsha. This Great Book of Creation ends with the death of its protagonists, and the exile of their descendants. It’s a depressing narrative to say the least.

Of course, we know that this darkness will eventually give way to the magnificence of Yetzias Mitzraim, the Splitting of the Red Sea and the Giving of the Torah. But not before generations of murder and slavery. Yosef’s death carries with it the full weight of the journey ahead. It is no wonder that we pause at this juncture to rally together and encourage each other to strengthen ourselves.

But this is not the whole story. The truth is that when Yosef dies, the journey has barely begun. At this point, the family of Yaakov was still experiencing some of the greatest prosperity that any Jewish community would ever enjoy. The slavery was still years away, the pain would only begin decades into the future.

On the one hand, Sefer Bereishis ends in exile and devastation, but on the other, it concludes with wondrous success: The reunification of Yaakov’s sons with all the religious and material freedoms they would ever want or need.

Perhaps it is davka this situation that needs the greatest Chizuk; this reality so eerily predictive of the lives which we live today. Drawing connections between Klal Yisrael in Mitzraim and our current circumstance is not my own interpretation; it was first said by the Ramban in our Parsha:

כי רדת יעקב למצרים הוא גלותינו היום ביד החיה הרביעית (דניאל ז ז) רומי הרשעה

Jacob’s descent into Egypt alludes to our present exile at the hand of the “fourth beast,” which represents Rome.

The Ramban continues to explain that our inability to fully return to Eretz Yisrael is not due to a lack of capacity on our part, but rather the intricate political alliances in which we are entangled. We are held back from fulfilling our national mission of reconquering and resettling Eretz Yisrael by the nations of the world; despite the fact that we are now capable.

It is in this complex web that Yaakov Avinu chooses to reveal to his children the vision of the end of time, as Rashi tells us:

בקש לגלות את הקץ ונסתלקה ממנו שכינה

He wished to reveal to them the end of Israel’s exile but the Shechinah departed from him.

Living in such times now, we can certainly appreciate the need for clarity about the future. If only there was a way to know and understand how Hashem is holding our hands and guiding us through this end of the exile. But instead, the Parsha is “closed”. There is no break. We rush from line to line, pasuk to pasuk, word to word, and there is no pause or explantion.

We move from news report to news report, hostage to hostage, story to story, soldier to soldier. There is no pause. No Break. No clarity. No clue when this is going to end. We too wish for Yaakov, for anyone, to reveal the end, but now, just as then, it’s closed.

But the Sfas Emes (ויחי תרל”א) shared the secret of our parsha and our life:

מ”מ כ' בזוה”ק שגילה מה שרצה לגלות רק בדרך הסתר Nevertheless, the Zohar teaches us that Yaakov was able to reveal something of the End in a hidden way.

והפי' ע”י אמונה יכולין למצוא האמת להתברר שהוא רק הסתר כנ”ל. ולכך ויחי יעקב סתום. שזה מקור החיות להיות נמצא גם בא”מ. The meaning of this, is that by our knowing that Yaakov knew, we know that the end is possible. Yaakov lived in Mitzraim; which means that it’s possible to find live and meaning and purpose and clarity even in the darkness of exile.

We know and believe with perfect faith that there is a happy end to the story. We know it because Yaakov knew it; even if he couldn’t share it. We know it because he lived it.

So this shabbos, we will finish Sefer Bereishis; living the same lives as out ancestors. Shrouded in politics, exile and anxiety about the future, but screaming “Chazak, Chazak V’Nischazek”. Despite it all, we can still continue to find strength. Whether we see it or not, the end of the darkness is coming soon.

As we approach the end of Sefer Bereishis, I cannot help but think back to the last time we finished a book of the Torah. For us in Chutz La’Aretz, it was the day after the world changed. As is the custom of Ashkenazim, we completed Sefer Devarim and cried out “Chazak, Chazak V’Nischazek”.

So many of our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael did not hear those words in Simchas Torah; they were hiding in bomb shelters and stair wells. So many will never hear those words again.

The origins of calling out these three words is somewhat murky. They are not written in the Torah. The custom is discussed by the Rishonim, trying to find a reason for our practice in its various forms. Sefardim call out “Chazak U’Baruch”, and some communities call out “Chazak, Chazak, Chazak.”

It appears, however, that according to all opinions, it is deeply rooted in the practice of Jews across the world and centuries that we conclude a Sefer with a cry of “Strength”.

The Pri Chadash (סי' קל”ט ס”ק י”א) notes this this is because the Talmud (ברכות לב א) tells us that four things always need strengthening: Torah, Good deeds, Tefillah and a Career.

Rav Kook explains that despite the obvious values to these endeavors, without constant work, we tend to let things slip. To this end, as soon as we complete a book of the Torah, we immediately declare that we should be strengthened to continue; we are not resting on our laurels.

But the conclusion of Sefer Bereishis appears to carry an additional message. But all standards, this book ends tragically:

וַיָּמׇת יוֹסֵף ... וַיִּישֶׂם בָּאָרוֹן בְּמִצְרָיִם Joseph died... and was placed in a coffin in Egypt.

The cry for strength at this juncture is not simply to encourage future Torah study; it’s a response to the calamity of the parsha. The great book of Creation ends with the death of its protagonists, and the exile of their descendants. It’s a depression narrative to say the least.

Of course, we know that this darkness will eventually give way to the magnificence of Yetzias Mitzraim, the Splitting of the Red Sea and the Giving of the Torah. But not before generations of murder and slavery. Yosef’s death carries with it the full weight of the journey ahead.

It is no wonder that we pause at this juncture to rally together and encourage each other to strengthen ourselves.

But this is not the whole story. The truth is that when Yosef dies, the journey has barely begun. At this point, the family of Yaakov was still experiencing some of the greatest prosperity that any Jewish community would ever enjoy. The slavery was still years away, the pain would only begin decades into the future.

On the one hand, Sefer Bereishis ends in exile and devastation, but on the other, it concludes with wondrous success: The reunification of Yaakov’s sons with all the religious and material freedoms they would ever want or need.

Perhaps it is davka this situation that needs the greatest Chizuk; the eerily predictive reality in which we live today. Drawing connections between Klal Yisrael in Mitzraim and our current circumstance is not own interpretation; it was first said by the Ramban in our Parsha:

כי רדת יעקב למצרים הוא גלותינו היום ביד החיה הרביעית (דניאל ז ז) רומי הרשעה

Jacob’s descent into Egypt alludes to our present exile at the hand of the “fourth beast,” which represents Rome.

The Ramban continues to explain that our inability to fully return to Eretz Yisrael is due to the intricate political alliances in which we are entangled. We are held back from fulfilling our national mission of reconquering and resettling Eretz Yisrael by nations of the world; despite the fact that we are now capable.

It is in this complex web that Yaakov Avinu chooses to reveal to his children the vision of the end of time, as Rashi tells us:

בקש לגלות את הקץ ונסתלקה ממנו שכינה

He wished to reveal to them the end of Israel’s exile but the Shechinah departed from him.

Living in such times now, we can certainly appreciate the need for clarity about the future. If only there was a way to know and understand how Hashem is holding our hands and guiding us through the end of the exile. But instead, the Parsha is “closed”. There is no break. We rush from line to line, pasuk to pasuk, word to word, and there is no pause.

We move from news report to news report, hostage to hostage, story to story, soldier to soldier. There is no pause. No Break. No clarity. No clue when this is going to end. We too wish for Yaakov to reveal the end, but now, just as then, it’s closed.

But the Sfas Emes shared the secret of our parsha and our life:

מ”מ כ' בזוה”ק שגילה מה שרצה לגלות רק בדרך הסתר Nevertheless, the Zohar teaches us that Yaakov was able to reveal something of the End in a hidden way.

והפי' ע”י אמונה יכולין למצוא האמת להתברר שהוא רק הסתר כנ”ל. ולכך ויחי יעקב סתום. שזה מקור החיות להיות נמצא גם בא”מ. The meaning of this, is that by knowing that Yaakov knew, we know that the end is possible. Yaakov lived in Mitzraim; which means that it’s possible to find live and meaning and purpose and clarity even in the darkness of exile.

We know and believe with perfect faith that there is a happy end to the story. We know it because Yaakov knew it; even if he couldn’t share it. We know it because he lived it.

So this shabbos, we will finish Sefer Bereishis; living the same lives as out ancestors. Shrouded in politics, exile and anxiety about the future, but screaming “Chazak, Chazak V’Nischazek”. Despite it all, we can still continue to find strength. Whether we see it or not, the end of the darkness is coming soon.

It’s not something we’re proud of, but we all seem to be running out of steam.

Do you remember the emotions of October 8th, 9th and 10th? Our heightened sense of purpose, our intensity in tefillah, our commitment to Talmud Torah? Do you remember the commitments that we all made? Tehillim ‘round the clock? The desperate hopes that perhaps this was finally the Geulah Sheleima? It’s not pleasant to admit it, but we’re not thinking, feeling and acting in the same way. None of it is quite the same as it was a few weeks ago.

Of course, some of this is the natural course of the year, each and every year. We often feel a powerful sense of direction in the days following Elul, Tishrei and Simchas Torah. By the time we’re lighting the last Neiros Chanukah we are usually pining for a few days of long awaited vacation. We’re looking forward to some down time, a break from the routine.

This year, however, it is difficult to justify our regular indulgences. I’ve heard it from member of our shul, from chaveirim and from colleagues. How can we plan a vacation when our brothers, cousins and nephews are fighting in Gaza, and Rachmana Litzlan, falling in battle? How can we spend money on Chanukah gifts and vacations for our children when hundreds of thousands of Israelis are still refugees? Shouldn’t we just send the money to those who need it far more than us?

But on the other hand, does it really help the situation if we deprive ourselves of rest and enjoyment? Has it not been a difficult year for us as well? Are we narcissists or normal for thinking this way? It’s hard to weigh up each moment of our personal lives with national importance.

At there core, these feelings and conundrums are all approaching a singular truth: We cannot go on like this forever. No one can. It’s simply too much.

So we turn away sheepishly, with overwhelming guilt. We rationalize that Hashem cannot possibly want or expect us to live with the same intensity as we did in the first days and weeks of the war.

In a deep way, we feel that these rationalizations are the words of the Yetzer Hara. We know that our Chaylim are fighting day and night. They are not taking vacations. Their families are not getting the much needed rest that they have undoubtedly earned either. And there’s the guilt again. Can I really not push myself to learn for another few minutes? Can I really not make it to minyan? So we push a little harder. Sometimes. Because none of this guilt changes the reality that carpools, homework, finals, work and family life are all tiring.

We’re caught in a web of wanting to do more, feeling the waves of hopelessness and despondency. So we spiral. Late nights doom scrolling. Constantly refreshing the pages to see if perhaps there is some glimmer of hope. It’s a tough to watch.

We comfort ourselves in the knowledge that we’re winning the war. We know that Tzahal is slowing taking control of Gaza; fulfilling their promise to eradicate our enemies. But that’s not what fills the news feeds. All we see are families of hostages desperate for a joyful end to the most excruciating pain imaginable. And as the days turn to weeks, weeks become months, we see more and more antisemites around the world gathering to call for the annihilation of our homeland and nation. Negotiations for the future of Gaza that never take Jewish safety and sovereignty into account.

Most tragically, the deaths of our precious Chayalim are impossible to process. Slowly we are becoming numb to the pain as we read another list of inconceivable losses. Our children have been exposed to words and worlds that their young ears should never need to hear. They no longer flinch. The word “kidnapped” is now part of life.

All of this raises the question: What does Hashem actually want from us right now?

It dawned on me during a recovery run this week.

Every runner knows that there are long runs, fast runs and hard runs, these are the runs that tax and exhaust us. But then there are recovery runs. These runs exist as a strange paradox. On the one hand, they are still a little tiring; but they are also slow enough and controlled enough that we return after the run with more strength and greater confidence.

Recovery is not just for sick people. The Oxford English dictionary defines recovery as “the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost.” That’s what we’re aiming for here; it’s based on a profound understanding that we are capable of more. It’s an admission that we have oceans of potential that is yet to be uncovered, and that we have work to do to actualize that potential. The ups and downs are part of the training.

A recovery run allows us to keep moving and keep growing even when we are tired. This is the Avoda that we need right now.

In place of unsustainable and anxious anticipation, recovery gives us sometime to do. Something that’s still achievable when we’re tired, burned-out and numb.

What is recovery in Torah and Mitzvos? Perhaps the best translation is Teshuva. Most of the time, we translate Teshuva as “repentance”. Sometimes, we translate it as “return”. All of this centers around sin and failure. But Teshuva is ultimately the process of building greater resilience, of becoming a better person because of the set-backs. That’s real recovery.

The most important feature of recovery is its purpose. It’s slow for a reason: To enable us to get stronger and avoid injury. It is an intentional slowing-down to prepare for harder challenges in the future.

This is our challenge and opportunity right now. If you’re feeling like you need a break, that you’re running on empty and that you just want to stop; this is not the time to give up! Klal Yisrael still needs us. Instead of grinding to a guilt-ridden halt, we can find ways to recover without stopping.

The Avoda is to ask ourselves: What can I in my Avodas Hashem to regain the motivation to push myself a little harder later? What chessed, learning, davening, mitzvah or middah can I work on while getting ready to upgrade the intensity? So what if I’m getting tired?! Thats part of the program. The real question is whether we’re growing or not. Ultimately, the question is: Where can I engage in Teshuva right now?

The Medrash (ב”ר כא ו) notes:

אֵין וְעַתָּה אֶלָּא תְּשׁוּבָה – The word “now” always means Teshuva

Living with purpose here and now is the ultimate recovery. It ensures that we are always getting better, always growing, always developing.

This broader perspective is the seismic shift that Hashem is asking from us right now. For many of us in Chutz La’aretz and in Eretz Yisrael, this war and these tragedies have awakened us to the singular reality that we can no longer live on auto-pilot. Hashem is calling each of us to take control of our lives, to honestly adjust our Avoda to ensure that we are moving forward and making a difference. He is asking us to reevaluate everything, from our daily decisions to our plans for the future. To find ways to live for more than just ourselves; to become the people that He needs us to become.

The world has changed since October 7th. Have you?

In the past eight weeks, as we have traveled through Sefer Bereishis, the connections between the parsha and our lives have been more than uncanny.

We have witnessed the darkness and desolation of ‘Tohu VaVohu,’ the confusion of a world before Hashem creates light. We have the most extreme moral depravity, echoes of the world before the flood. The Avraham’s of our generation, have once again gone to war to free their captured family. Sarah Imenu has been abducted by a rapist regime. Yitzchak has been placed on the Mizbeach. Dina has been kidnapped and defiled, and her brothers, Shimon and Levi have reenlisted in the IDF to avenge her honor.

It should not surprising that the are countless more connections that we have seen, heard and learned. After all, מעשה אבות סימן לבנים – The actions of our ancestors pave the way for our lives. Or as Rav Moshe Stav explained to me in KBY: “The Torah is a history book. But it doesn’t tell the story of the past, it tells the story of the future.”

For this reason, there are many Rabbanim and teachers who are getting nervous as we approach this Shabbos. This week, the focus changes from the enemies outside to the horrors of our own internal fighting. This Shabbos, Yosef is sold into slavery. This week, the seeds of Sinas Chinam are sowed; seeds that would lead to the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash.

None of this is a secret; we are all well aware of the bitterness of Jew-Against-Jew hatred, and its devastating effects. This has plagued us for two millennia of painful exile.

It is not my place to say it; but there are many in Israel who see the connection between the extreme divisiveness of October 6, and the hell of October 7.

Personally, I am far more cautious about ascribing reasons to the actions of Hashem. But I certainly agree with the sentiment that this war should serve as an opportunity and a calling for greater and sustained Jewish unity.

Of course, in our community and all around the world, we have been inspired by and involved in the amazing unity of the past few weeks. Through the tears and heartbreak, it feels like we’re finally getting the message that we cannot do this alone. We need each other, and we need to value each other.

And yet, the beginnings of political stirrings are reawakening. Like cracks in the foundation of our fragile national heart, Israel is hearing murmurings of old, unresolved tensions, not to mention the fresh wounds that have been torn open in the pain of making life and death decisions.

Beneath all the questions and challenges there is still a deep and desperate hope, a yearning and a tefillah that we never reignite the flames of internal hatred. But in the sleepless, late night hours of worrying and doom scrolling, we wonder if there might ever be time that Jews just get along with each other. Two thousand years of Sinas Chinam seems to be an insurmountable hurdle. In our lowest moments, cynically, we question if perhaps this pain will be enough to shake us into unity. And if not, what will it take? These are thoughts we don’t want to think.

So we try to do our part, small as it might seem, we know what to do. We reach out to friends and family with love and patience. We work on our middos. We judge each other favorably. We beg Hashem to help us. We desperately try to ensure that the hatred between Yosef and his Brothers ends with here and now. Forever. We know what might happen if we continue to perpetuate it.

There’s just one problem: We’re pretty sure that it wont work. We still feel as strongly about the truth and validity of our opinions as we did before; perhaps even more so now. And so do the Jews who disagree with us. We haven’t actually resolved any of the issues between us. We have simply put everything on hold in service of a greater common goal. But what’s to say that we will not erupt into bitter disunity the moment we have a little safety? Is there anything we can practically do to prevent it?

To begin an understanding, we should examine the source of our fighting, the root of the fissure been Yosef and his Brothers. Why did they hate him? The commentaries grapple with the pesukim, mining them for hints and indications that might account for the extremity of this tragic fallout. Was it really all about Lashon Hara and Yaakov’s gift technicolor dream-coat?

The Medrash (בראשית רבה פ״ד ח), however, asks the question from a different angel; challenging neither Yosef nor his Brothers, but instead, questioning the silent orchestrator of all these events: The Master of all Words, Hashem.

Why does Hashem plant quasi-prophetic dreams of rulership in Yosef’s head? Why does Hashem ensure that Yosef is guided by an angelic stranger to his brothers’ location when he cannot find them? And even with all of that, is there anything that can adequately explain such deep rooted animosity between brothers? There is so much of this story cannot be explained by family dynamics, psychology and probability.

To all this, the Medrash answers perplexingly:

לָמָּה וַיִּשְׂנְאוּ אֹתוֹ, בִּשְׁבִיל שֶׁיִּקָרַע הַיָּם לִפְנֵיהֶם Why was it that “they (the brothers) hated him”? It was so that the sea would be split before them.

The Rashash comments on this enigmatic Medrash: Hashem arranged that the brothers would hate Yosef, leading to his becoming a slave in Egypt, where Yosef would withstand the temptation of Potifar’s wife. Consequently, he would accrue great merit, and it was as a result of that merit that the sea was split for Klal Yisrael.

This hardly seems like satisfactory answer. Is the Rashash saying that Hashem actually wanted the brothers to hate Yosef? Did He want Yosef to be sold into slavery? Even suggesting it sounds bizarre and cruel. But there is a profound depth to this Medrash, as explained by Rav Moshe Dovid Valle, the great student of the Ramchal:

Hashem did want the brothers to hate Yosef. Without the involuntary and painful training provided by his brothers, Yosef would never have withstood the challenges of Egypt. He tasted defeat in the most painful way once, and grew to ensure it would never happen to him again.

The Torah tells us that וְלֹא יָכְלוּ דַּבְּרוֹ לְשָׁלֹם – the brothers could not speak peacefully with him. On this, the Zohar HaKadosh writes that they could not make peace with Yosef even if they wanted to! Hashem wanted this fight to happen because Hashem wanted Yosef to be prepared.

When we zoom out from our private and communal battles, when we look at history with the privilege of hindsight, we might see a greater story being written. In this story, it is the lion cubs who wrestle and claw at each other, that are eventually equipped to rule the animal kingdom. In the deepest of ways, Chazal are telling us that Jewish disunity is a feature and not a bug. But what does this mean for us here and now?

Our world is far from perfect, and each one of us is here to make a difference that only we can make. Which means, that so long as there is evil in the world, we will be forced to train ourselves and each other to overcome it. Hashem has sent us here, compelled to argue, to bicker and fight. We are simply incapable of sitting back, watching it happen. All of this in service of sharpening our words and our wisdom.

Whether we like it or not, no Jew is capable of evading this urge to make Klal Yisrael better in the way that each of us sees fit. And in these painful exchanges, we are to trim away our insincerities, insecurities and egos. Ultimately, we emerge battle-ready, trained and armed for the wars that each of us must wage, and that Klal Yisrael must wage together.

In a profound way, the Zohar is telling us that our tensions and divisiveness arise from our hardwired collective understanding that greater battles are coming.

Of course, there is a grave danger lurking if Chas V’Shalom, we forget that we are here training each other. God forbid that we should ever feel that another Jew is the real enemy. That has been the failure of our ancestors throughout the generations, and indeed, it is our challenge today.

To put it simply, there is an enormous difference between “Jewish Unity” and “Ahavas Yisrael”. The mistake we have made time and time again is to conflate these points. Loving each and every Jew is a undeniable and consistent requirement, equally true during times of war and peace. Of course, in these times of war, pain and crisis, we must put our differences aside; Jewish Unity is our singular path to victory. But what of the differences? If we cannot simply will them away. What does Hashem want from us?

I think the answer is clear. Hashem wants us to fight.

As Chazal (קידושין ל׳ ב) tell us:

אֲפִילּוּ הָאָב וּבְנוֹ, הָרַב וְתַלְמִידוֹ שֶׁעוֹסְקִין בַּתּוֹרָה בַּשָּׁעַר אֶחָד – נַעֲשִׂים אוֹיְבִים זֶה אֶת זֶה. וְאֵינָם זָזִים מִשָּׁם עַד שֶׁנַּעֲשִׂים אוֹהֲבִים זֶה אֶת זֶה Even a father and his son, or a rabbi and his student, who are engaged in Torah together in one gate become enemies with each other due to the intensity of their studies. But they do not leave there until they love each other.

One doesn’t need to be a prophet to see that greater battles are coming to Eretz Yisrael, and to Klal Yisrael throughout the world. We need to be prepared. We need to be sure that our ideas, our ideologies and our intentions are L’Shem Shamayim. And to that end, Hashem will be pushing us to train ourselves and each other; urging us to fight for truth. This is all part of the process, so long as we never forget that the Jews who look, speak and think so differently from us are not really our enemies, but our sparring partners. If we learn to do this right, we will leave the fight stronger, better and closer to each other.

When we see Jews fighting over massive questions, or if we feel the urge to do so ourselves, we should not despair. This is nothing less than Hashem inviting us to better ourselves; keeping us awake forcing us to discover the truth in ourselves and each other.

We don’t know what the future holds. In the comes days and weeks there might be pits of snakes and scorpions to descend into and survive. There will be dire distractions and we will need to become people who can withstand the seductive temptations of the world around us. And if we are prepared, perhaps soon the time will come that we will each be able to split the sea once more.

This week has been one long series of logistical challenges for our family. I'm not complaining – it's all for good things. As many of you know, Rebbetzin Aliza Blumenthal is currently on the OU's Women's Mission to Israel together with the rest of the Boca Delegation: Rebbetzin Goldberg, Dr. Michal Miller and Sue Kaskel.

All this means that I've been doubling up on the daily family tasks. Like most families, as our family has grown, Aliza and I have divided up the multitudes of carpools, bath-times, homework sessions, meal preps, shopping trips, cooking, laundry etc... We know our daily and weekly roles and we pretty much get on with getting things done. It's this schedule that allows us to attempt to be functioning adults as well. As any parent of young children knows, all we can ever do is make an attempt. Young kids are predictably unpredictable.

Now, don't get me wrong; I love spending time with my kids, and Baruch Hashem, I get to spend a lot of time with them. Truthfully, the days when I can be a full-time Abba are some of my favorite. But it's tough to be a full time Rabbi at the same time. It's tough to daven properly, prepare shiurim, learn Torah, and teach my talmidim. It's tough to be a functional adult while also chasing kids.

Of course, I fully recognize that my challenges this week are the tip of the iceberg for so many single parents each and every day. I remember those days well from the other side. For almost a decade, my brother and I were raised single handedly by my mom; and through this amazing privilege of raising my own children I am still consistently awed by the fact that my mom managed to achieve so much by herself. It's a debt of gratitude that I feel even more powerfully this week.

So, between the extra carpools, tantrums, lunches and schedule, I've tried to find a minute to reflect on all of this. In some small way, I'm trying to empathize with all of hundreds of thousands of Israeli parents who have been struggling along, alone at home worrying about their family on the front lines.

Throughout this week, Aliza and the other incredible women on the trip have met with the wives, mothers and families of Chayalim who have been away from home for weeks. The presence of these Rebbetzins and community leaders has relieved a drop of loneliness and exhaustion from the Israeli Homefront, and if I can help them by changing a few extra diapers in Boca, then I'm honored to add to that relief.

But, tragically these are still all comparatively “normal challenges”, barely grazing the surface of the turmoil and complications for the families of the hostages.

This week I have thought about the fathers and mothers in captivity in a far more personal light. Please forgive me; it's absurd to compare at all, but when our two year cries for his mommy, I tell him that mommy will be home in a few days; and that maybe we could FaceTime later.

Every time I've said those words, I have thought about the words – or lack of words – that must be said to toddlers waiting to hear if their parents have been released from the Hell of Hamas captivity. Or the parents waiting for news about their kids.

For them, there is no assurance, certainly no FaceTime. For those families, there is no reprieve from the relentless agony of longing, yearning, crying, hoping and fighting against the ever looming despair.

These past few days have brought me closer to the pain of our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael. My tefillos, rushed as they have been, have been focussed on and dedicated to those families.

But, like everything else in life, I have tried to view the past few days in the greater context of understanding Ratzon Hashem. And so I've asked myself: What does Hashem want from me right now?

The answers are not difficult to say; but they are certainly challenging to implement. This week, I suppose, Hashem wants me to work harder on my middos of empathy and patience. He wants me to get better at managing my expectations of myself and my children. He wants me to give more gratitude to my wife now, and in general.

Hashem does not want me to experience annoyance and frustration and conclude “only a few more days.” The point of this exercise is not just to “survive” the week, but for me to become a better father, husband and Eved Hashem.

In a strange way, adopting this type of growth mindset is not only possible while taking care of kids, it is almost a requirement of the child raising process.

Young children force us to work on our flexibility, forgiveness, patience and empathy in a way that we often overlook in our dealings with ourselves and other adults. Kids are so honest with their needs and emotions. They are transparent and devoid of agendas. Primarily, they just want to be happy, and they want others to be happy as well.

To enjoy spending time with our kids requires us to abandon negativity, cynicism, pessimism, over-thinking and judgmentalism. For most adults, this is nothing less than a radical shift in perspective. It's a totally new way of looking at and experiencing the world. We are so often consumed by the duplicity of the media and politics; surrounded by sarcasm, falsehoods and hatred, that we fail to see any hope or beauty.

The Yesod Tzadik – Reb Shlomke of Zhevil explains that this childlike perspective not just for kids. It's the essence of being a Jew, and it's hidden in the life of Yaakov Avinu:

The Torah often refers to Esav as a “Gadol” – a great one, as opposed to Yaakov, the “Katan”, or small one. It's a strange detail to harp on when they were born barely a minute apart; indeed, Yaakov practically emerges together with his brother, holding his heel. Why should Yaakov always be a Katan?

Reb Shlomke explains: We look at the challenges of a Gadol and Katan very differently. Contrast the adult who cannot walk well, with the toddler who tripping over their own feet. The adult makes us nervous and concerned. His situation demands a visit to a doctor, a diagnoses and a prescription. But the toddler's problems walking are of little concern to anyone. His challenge is normal and kids grow up. He'll learn to walk in due course. Likewise, an adult who can't talk is potentially seriously ill, but a babbling child is cute; he's still learning.

Consider how the mistakes of an adult are always so grave, so irreparable, so unforgivable, while a child can always do better next time.

How do we relate to a child who is crying over nothing?

If we're trying to be good parents, we'll note that “They're probably just tired, hungry or uncomfortable.” But isn't the same true for most adults as well? Do we not become a little less reasonable when we're tired, hungry and uncomfortable? Imagine if we gave ourselves and each other a little of this treatment. How many arguments could be avoided by sharing a snack before the discussion?

And what of our setbacks and failures? From the moment one is a Gadol, every challenge is a decline. But for a Katan, the issues are only issues as long as they last; they exist only until we “grow out of it”. We never stop encouraging a Katan. His setbacks are not brick walls, they are speed-bumps. A child can always learn more, grow more, achieve more.

So the Torah tells us that Yaakov is the paradigmatic Katan – he's always willing to see each and every moment as the beginning of a greater story. His Tefillah before engaging with his murderous brother indicates this growth – in becoming even more of a Katan:

קָטֹנְתִּי מִכֹּל הַחֲסָדִים וּמִכּל־הָאֱמֶת Hashem, I have become less due to the kindness and truth that You have done for me...

The Meforshim grapple with the phrase קָטֹנְתִּי. How has Yaakov gotten smaller? But with our explanation it makes perfect sense. Yaakov is relating to Hashem that precisely because of all the kindness that Hashem has showed him, he is further inspired to be a Katan. He can see that even this terrifying, life-threatening encounter with Esav is a new beginning, it's a moment of growth. Effectively, Yaakov is saying “There is nothing in my life that will make me stop believing that I can do better, that I can grow though this. If I remain a Katan forever, there is always more growing up for me to achieve.

This has been my Avoda this week – קָטֹנְתִּי – I'm trying to get a little smaller. I'm working on my middos, becoming a little more childlike, learning with and from my kids.

But beyond all of this, I'm davening for the parents fighting the longest battle of all on the Homefront. The battle to ensure that the Klal Yisrael which emerges from this war is raised with a love of Hashem, His Land, His People and His Torah.

I don't know. You don't know. None of us know.

The War Cabinet of the State of Israel has just agreed to a deal which will, Be'ezras Hashem, see the return of fifty hostages. Hostages who were cruelly and brutally abducted from their homes. Hostages who witnessed the hell of October 7th first hand, and for whom that terror has not abated for even one second.

I cannot even begin to imagine the emotions of this moment for the families of the 240+ hostages. Sleepless nights hoping, praying, yearning. Will my son, daughter, husband, wife, brother, sister, parent or grandparent be one of the “lucky ones”? And grave concern. What will the future hold for those who are not released in this deal?

We don't know.

What will be the cost of a “pause” in fighting? In Gaza? In the international arena? We are facing an enemy who celebrates death and revels in brutality, and a world of sympathizers and supporters of such evil. What will this mean for our brave Chayalim? Will this put them in even greater danger?

And what of those terrorists who will be released from Israeli prisons in this exchange? Their intentions and ideology have, no doubt, remained the same. Are they not still murderous anti-semites who desire the destruction of Jewish life and the State of Israel?

Is this price too much to pay? Is this the right thing for the State? Is this the right strategy for the war?

But what is the alternative? To allow these hostages to continue languishing in excruciating captivity? How could we?

For those who are wondering what the Halacha should be in this harrowing situation, I implore you not to attempt to “pasken” based on the shiur that you once heard, the Tosfot that you once learned, or the article that you once read. This case is far more complex than we might realize. (To learn more, Rav Asher Weiss, שליט”א addressed the Sugya here.)

We desperately want to know what is Ratzon Hashem here and we are not qualified to know.

But that's not the point. The point is that this is not our decision to make. We, in Chutz La'aretz, and even in Israel, are not members of the War Cabinet. We are not Poskim for Klal Yisrael, or generals of the IDF. We don't know the right thing to do here. But that's ok. It is not our job to know.

However we might feel about the decisions that Israel is making, I implore you to remember that there is a reason that the Master of All Worlds has not given this decision to you or me. This crucial and monumental choice is not for us to make. This choice is not ours; but there are many choices that Hashem has absolutely given to you and me. It's important to focus on our own Avoda.

Chief amongst our tasks is considering how to relate to Jews who do not share our opinion about this deal; or any other strategies and thoughts related to this war. Many more difficult questions are going to be asked. But we are not the ones who must answer. There is other work for us to do.

To be clear: Our Avoda right now is to fight, with all of our strength and power, to ensure that we do not return to the fragmentation, frustration and anger of October 6th, and to daven for the success of our nation.

Through the tears, pain and sleepless nights, each and every one of us has been uplifted by the overwhelming Ahavas Yisrael we have seen and experienced in the past six weeks. We cannot allow these feelings and perspectives to revert back to Sinas Chinam.

This is our primary battle. This is the war that we must win at all costs. Now that we have learned who the enemy is, we dare not fight each other. The world, social media and the news will try to infiltrate our hearts and minds. They will sow dissent and distrust; and we must commit to fighting the Jew Hatred in each one of us.

The methodology for success here, is first detailed by Yaakov Avinu.

The Torah this Shabbos describes how Yaakov fled his home; running from his murderous brother Esav. He arrives at some distant mountain top and prepares to sleep. Of course, we, along with Yaakov, are soon to learn that this is no ordinary mountain top. This is Har Hamoriah, the cite of the future Beis HaMikdash. But at this point, Yaakov is simply getting ready for bed.

The pasuk tells us: וַיִּקַּח מֵאַבְנֵי הַמָּקוֹם וַיָּשֶׂם מְרַאֲשֹׁתָיו – he took of the stones of that place, and put them by his head.

Reb Baruch of Mezhibuz asks the obvious question. Surely it would've been better to fortify his entire body? He should've built a small enclosure around his entire bed. Why only his head? Reb Baruch explains: If your thoughts are in the right place the rest of your body will be as well. But one who does not fortify their mind against the intrusions of negativity has no hope of keeping the rest of the themselves safe.

Yaakov Avinu could well have fallen prey to the invasive thoughts of wondering whether or not his father loved or understood him. Wondering if he would ever see his parents again. Wondering if Esav would eventually find him and kill him. But rather than allow the invasion, he fortifies his mind; and somehow manages to fall asleep. It is only at this point that Hashem reveals the past, present and future of Klal Yisrael; the ladder connecting Heaven and Earth and the dreams of generations to come.

Thousands of years later, we too are desperate for rest. Desperate for safety and security. Desperate for an end to our wars and wanderings. And the thoughts that are invading our minds are pervasive and corrosive. The worst of which are pushing us to point fingers at each other, at Hashem and at ourselves.

But if we want to ensure that Geulah will come to the hostages, to the Chayalim, to Klal Yisrael, we need to fend off the urge to fight each other.

Despite the challenges, we too need to live the dream that we are at the bottom of a ladder climbing up to the heavens. The only ones who are truly capable of pushing us off the ladder are us. But the world of Mashiach is one in which we climb together, despite our differences.

R' Pinchas of Koretz (הקדמה למדרש פנחס) explains:

Small Tzadikim have the capacity to love small Reshaim. Big Tzadikim can love even Big Reshaim. Mashiach will be able to love even completely wicked people... Anyone who can find the good in another Jew, is a little piece of Mashiach.

Of course, those making decisions for Klal Yisrael are far from Reshaim. It should be easy for us to love and daven for each and every one of our leaders and elected officials. They are making some of the most painful decisions that our nation has ever faced, and we are davening that Hashem give them the wisdom and clarity that only He can provide.

Whether you agree or disagree, we must all concede that there is still so much we don't know. So much we might never know. The only thing that we do know is that there are rungs on the ladder that we still need to climb, and the greatest danger in this deal – and any other, is that we hold ourselves back, that we stop climbing together.

Hashem should open our eyes to understand. He should bring all the hostages home safely. He should fight our wars for us, so that this Channuka, we can once again kindle the lights of Torah and Tefillah in our hearts, in our homes and in the Beis HaMikdash.

On Tuesday, we stood together with three-hundred thousand supporters of Israel is Washington. To date, that is the largest pro-Israel rally in history. In the past five weeks everything seems larger.

Something has changed. Something feels different this time.

This is not just another war. It's not another incursion into Gaza. And the response of our enemies around the world isn't simply anti-semitism. It's vicious, egregious and unabashed. Somehow, this all feels bigger; far more significant.

Chazal describe the war(s) of Gog U'Magog as the “bite of a snake”. On this, Rav Kook writes:

Anytime that the nations of the world have risen against us, they have been driven by some type of personal gain. Sometimes to take that which is ours, sometimes from jealousy. Sometimes as a result of feeling threatened by our spiritual growth. But the war of Gog U'Magog will be waged against us with no purpose other than the desire to perpetrate evil and to destroy... At that time there will be nothing to gain from waging war. We will already be settled in our land, seeking peace with all of our neighbors. All that will be left will be a hateful desire to do evil and a jealously of the Honor of Hashem, through the honor of the Jewish people.

To that end, this final war is like that of a snake. A lion and a wolf attack and kill in order to eat, but a snake bites with no personal gain. This is a most dangerous enemy, but it will be that davka from this terror, that the true salvation of Klal Yisrael will emerge. To make the name of Hashem greater in the world.

Is this the war to end all wars? Is this Gog U'magog? We have no way of knowing; Hashem's plans are always hidden from us until He chooses to reveal them. But make no mistake – this war is most certainly different from all other wars that Israel has fought. And the brutality of our enemies is unlike anything we have seen in decades, or perhaps centuries.

Our holy Chayalim have descended into the hell of Gaza to destroy the snake whose only goal is to hurt us. They are risking their lives to rescue 240+ of our brothers and sisters who are being held captive by an enemy that glorifies pain and death.

But hidden beneath these explicit military goals there is a new mission. A mission which we have not experienced on this scale since the days of Bar Kochva. For the first time in almost two thousand years, Klal Yisrael has mobilized to defend Jewish pride; גאון יעקב – The Honor of the Nation of Hashem.

There was once a time that Yaakov Avinu had to dress and pretend, he had to steal the Brachos, and then flee in fear from the murderous wrath of his brother Esav. But Chazal tell us that there will be a time in the future when Klal Yisrael will not hide in cowardice and fear; a time when we fight not just for freedom, not simply in self defense. We will fight for Jewish honor.

In the words of Shimon and Levi who went to war against the city of Sh'chem to avenge the rape and kidnapping of Dina: “They cannot be allowed to do this to our sister.”

The State of Israel was founded as a safe haven for the Jews of the Exile. We, the persecuted victims who endured two millennia of murder, crucifixion, abuse, torture and rape would finally return home; a place to call our own once more. An ancient homeland where we could defend ourselves and our futures, a place where we would be free from the pogroms and hatred.

On Simchas Torah 5784, those dreams were shattered. For the first time, this is no longer our mission.

This war is not an about self defense. Two weeks ago, myself, along with forty Rabbinic from the OU went to Sderot to see the destruction and to meet with the Mayor of that broken city. At the end of our conversation, we asked him what the next steps were for his town:

“We have the best missile defense system in the world. We have shelters, sirens and the iron dome. But when 45 of our residents town are murdered in broad daylight in the streets of our town, we are done playing defense. We don't want to defend anymore. We want to ensure that they will never attack us again.”

It's the same feeling we felt on on Tuesday, some three-hundred thousand people – Jews and non Jews – standing at the national mall and declaring “We are not afraid.”

The Talmud (ברכות יז א) relates the various tefillos that Tanaim and Amoraim would say at the end of davening:

ר' אלכסנדרי בתר דמצלי אמר הכי רבון העולמים גלוי וידוע לפניך שרצוננו לעשות רצונך ומי מעכב שאור שבעיסה ושעבוד מלכיות יהי רצון מלפניך שתצילנו מידם ונשוב לעשות חוקי רצונך בלבב שלם.

Master of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that our will is to perform Your will, and what prevents us? On the one hand, the yeast in the dough, the evil inclination that is within every person; and the subjugation to the kingdoms on the other. May it be Your will that You will deliver us from their hands, of both the evil inclination and the foreign kingdoms, so that we may return to perform the edicts of Your will with a perfect heart.

The Maharsha explains that these two challenges, the yeast in the dough, our Yetzer Hara, and the pressures from the nations of world are two sides of the same coin.

The reason for our failure as Jews is due to a misalignment of our senses of pride. The Yetzer Hara deludes us into thinking that we can rebel against Hashem, but the nations of the world delude us into thinking that being a Jew means being a victim: שאין מניחין לישראל להתגאות אבל משפילים אותם בתכלית השפלות – “They do not allow us to be proud Jews. Instead they utterly humiliate us.”

Our Tefillah, and indeed our Avoda, is to flip the script. Through the heartbreak, the pain and the sorrow, Klal Yisrael is rising up to declare that we will be humiliated no longer. We do not need to pretend in order to be worthy of Bracha. We don't need to hide from the Esavs of the world in order to survive.

It is time we claim our birthright, the final Bracha that Yizchak gave Yaakov Avinu:

וְיִתֶּן־לְךָ אֶת־בִּרְכַּת אַבְרָהָם לְךָ וּלְזַרְעֲךָ אִתָּךְ לְרִשְׁתְּךָ אֶת־אֶרֶץ מְגֻרֶיךָ

Hashem should give you the Bracha of Avraham, to you and your descendants to inherit this Land.

Last Monday night, he told us the story...

Until Simchas Torah, Guy and his family lived in Kfar Maimon. Since that awful day, that have temporarily relocated to the Ramada Hotel in Yerushalayim, along with hundreds of residents of the South.

His family's story begins much the same as everyone else. Everything was OK until 6:30am on Shabbos morning... and then everything changed:

Like most residents in the area, we don’t have guns. Our communities are safe. Of course, we have bomb shelters. We're used to hearing sirens and running for cover. But no-one needs to carry a weapon – it wouldn't help; you can't shoot a rocket out of the air. Until that morning, we thought we were safe.

Many of us woke up to the sounds of furious gun fire. We ran to the safe room, and I began calling the local security team, army hotlines and police to find out what was happening. It didn't take long to understand that Kfar Maimon would be infiltrated, but I had no idea as to the scale of the attack. The only thing I knew was that we were minutes away from terrorists walking coming through our streets.

My wife and I have four children. Two big boys, twenty and eighteen years old; and thirteen-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.

With all the fear and adrenaline, I debated if I should tell my family what was happening. How does a father turn to his family and explain that no-one was coming to save us. The army was hours away. My mind started racing – how do I prepare my family for this battle. We have no guns. What if the terrorists come in our home? Should I tell my children that this might be our last day alive?

I called over the two older boys. I began to tell them – gently – about what was happening. They didn't need my hesitation: “Abba, we have phones. We already know what's going on. Just tell us what to do. What's the plan?”

My army training kicked in, and we analyzed our environment. The weakest point in our home is the large glass doors. I knew that if the terrorists would try to enter, it would be from there. There is no way to barricade it, so we prepared to fight.

My oldest, the twenty year old, is a scuba diver. We had no weapons or ammunition, but he has a harpoon. He stationed himself directly across from the large window. Myself and my eighteen year old clutched the sharpest knives we could find in the kitchen. Each of us on either side of the window.

If a terrorist entered, we would fire the harpoon, and jump on his neck. That was the plan; it was all that we had.

I then took my thirteen year son aside and told him: While me and your brothers are fighting, your job is to get your mother and sister to safety. We planned the escape routes. At the age of 13, he was now a soldier.

We stayed in position for hours that morning, as we heard the helicopters and the shooting nearby. We waited for the invaders, but somehow, they did not come.

Miraculously, Baruch Hashem, Kfar Maimon was saved. We found out about the miracle afterwards. Forty terrorists left Kibbutz Be'eri and made their way to Kfar Maimon. As they we arriving at the gates, a Hamas rocket hit a Tzahal helicopter and forced it to land. Amazingly, neither the pilot, nor the soldiers were harmed. But as the Chayalim evacuated the helicopter, they found the forty terrorists coming from Be'eri, engaged them and succeeded in killing them all. It was a 'nes min ha-shamayim.' Hashem was watching over us.

The following night was the worst of my life. Every noise, every shadow, every whisper. I thought they were coming back.

We spend the night awake, taking turns holding the door of the safe room. After thirty hours in the shelter, we saw another family, a neighbor getting reading to leave. We decided to evacuate with them, and split our two families in two, in case one of the cars was attacked.

As we began driving, we saw hundreds of cars on the sides of the road. I told the children to keep their heads down so that they would be safe. This was true of course, but I also didn't want to them to see what I was seeing; the blood and the the bodies.

When we finally arrived in Kiryat Gat, I told my kids they could sit up in the car. We were anxious and starving. I got to a bakery in the late afternoon and asked them what they had available. The owner looked around and pointed to thirty loaves of bread that were left that day. I took out my wallet “I'll take all of them please.” I have never felt so vulnerable in my life.

It's been three weeks since that day. Every night, my kids have been crying in the hotel room. But I tell them: We are the lucky ones. We’re all alive and we have each other.

They still have many questions.

...

Amongst the cruelest challenges is the impossible task of Jewish parents talking to our children about this war. Of course, parents in Israel are experiencing this far more acutely than those of us in Chutz La'aretz. But across the world, children are asking their parents “Why do they hate us?” “What does hostage mean?” “What is happening to the little babies that were kidnapped?”

Each child asks according to what they have seen or been exposed to. As parents, we try to shield them from seeing or hearing the horrors. But we also want to keep them safe; stay vigilant; somehow without causing hysteria and trauma. No two kids are the same – each one requires care, concern and a nuanced approach. In general, I highly recommend reaching out to professionals to ensure that your children are not overly and unnecessarily exposed to pain and trauma.

In the deepest way, the way we speak to our children holds all of our fears, hopes and dreams in the balance. We want our children to be safe now. And we want them to feel connected to Klal Yisrael in this time of great need. Yet, we are maintaining the desperate tefillah that this trauma will never be relevant in their lives and futures. We don't want this cloud to cast a shadow over their futures.

Most importantly, we want to ensure that our children can feel confident in knowing that we will always tell them the truth – somehow without causing them any pain or damage.

Tragically, this question is not new to us as a nation. We have survived many such events in the long years of exile. And, to a certain extent, this question is one that arrises every year during the three weeks and the nine days. Do we educate our children to observe these laws and customs? Or perhaps we temper this chinuch with the aspiration that by the time our children are Bnei and Bnos Mitzvah, we will no longer be mourning the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash? The poskim grapple with these considerations.

There are no simple answers to these questions, and many might be tempted to avoid speaking to our kids about this at all. But I would like to suggest that in this particularly complex time, there is an enormous amount of wisdom that we can gain from our children as well.

As adults, we train ourselves look at the world with nuance; but often times, that nuance is is conflated with ego, politics and self-righteous justification.

There is a certain truth that children can offer us in these times: Kids are uniquely positioned to see the world in black and white. They are naturally inclined to define actions as good or evil. This is a perspective that many adults are sorely lacking.

To put it simply: Sometimes things are not that complicated. Sometimes there are people that have chosen to perpetrate evil, and others who are living their lives with love and care and goodness.

There is much to be gained by telling our children and ourselves that Klal Yisrael is fighting a war against evil. Hamas is evil. Kids understand this, and it's valuable for us to say it unequivocally. In talking to our children, we are forced to reduce this conflict to its core: This is war between right and wrong.

Perhaps this is the great life lesson of Sarah Imenu, as the Medrash tells us:

בַּת עֶשְׂרִים כְּבַת שֶׁבַע לְנוֹי, בַּת מֵאָה כְּבַת עֶשְׂרִים שָׁנָה לְחֵטְא When twenty years old she was like a seven year old girl regarding beauty, and when a hundred years old she was like a twenty year old regarding sin.

Sarah Imenu never lost her childlike appreciation of the beauty of the world. She never became a cynical about the possibility of an amazing future. And thought her life, her distain for sin and evil remained intact. Sarah Imenu never lost sight of what is right and wrong, good and evil, and despite that and all that she saw, she lived a life of hopes, dreams and aspirations.

Hashem should help us all, and all of our children, to emerge from the war intact – physically, emotionally and spiritually.

Above: A Surprise Sheva Brachos in the Tzahal base in Chevron.

On Monday afternoon, arriving from the airport, I walked into the dining room of the Dan Panorama jet lagged and shellshocked. The lobby looked like a refugee camp. Displaced families from the south painfully wearing the expressions of people who never imagined they would see the things that they saw.

As I got to the coffee machine, an elderly women looked up at me from her table. In her shaking hands was a large print Birkon. “Can you please help me find the page for Birkat HaMazon?” She asked. “Once I have it, I can follow the words. But it's hard for me to find it without my glasses. I don't have them anymore.”

She and her family have evacuated their Kibbutz in the South. I didn't have the heart to ask what happened to those glasses, or the home she used to live in. But I helped her find the page. I watched her say the ancient words of birkas hamazon: נוֹדֶה לְּךָ ה' אֱלֹקינוּ עַל שֶׁהִנְחַלְתָּ לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ אֶרֶץ חֶמְדָּה טוֹבָה וּרְחָבָה – We thank you, Hashem our God, that you have given as an inheritance to our ancestors a wonderful, good and expansive land. She said them with pain and gratitude. She meant every word.

...

There was a man, an evacuee from Yachini playing the guitar in the lobby late on Monday night. I took out my ukulele and we played together for a while. “How are you doing?” I asked. In typical Israel fashion, he answered confidently “Beseder gamur” – totally ok. But then, quite atypically he laughed ironically and explained: “We are Besder – we're ok. But Gamur. Totaled. We're done.”

We continued to play music together, until a teen from Sderot came downstairs with his electric guitar, and a small group formed for an impromptu kumzitz.

This was my introduction to a New Medinat Yisrael.

I have merited to visit this incredible country many times. But something has changed. It's not the same as it was before Simchas Torah 5784.

In this new country refugees from their homes thank Hashem for this wonderful land. They are emotionally, physically and psychologically traumatized. They are exhausted, drained and heartbroken. But emerging from this heartbreak is a love for Klal Yisrael which I have never seen.

...

We met Yiscah, the widow of Yoni Steinberg hy”d, the commander of Nachal Brigade who fell defending Kibbutz Kerem Shalom on Simchas Torah. She described her husband as modest and disciplined; a man committed to a life of Talmud Torah. She told us of their mutual decision to live their lives for the sake of Klal Yisrael. She told us how he would return from tactical operations for Shabbos, and she made sure to fit the Shabbos meals around his schedule of Chavrusos throughout the day. She is so proud of this man who died as he lived, leaving behind six children an unimaginable legacy of Ahavas Torah and Mesirus Nefesh.

Yiscah is heartbroken, but completely whole in a way I could not understand. Every word and tear quietly screamed to the world that she is a woman who knows that her life is part of a much greater story. A story that is eternal, that defies death; a song which is rising to its magnificent crescendo.

I walked out of their home feeling that there is something new flowing through the veins of our brothers and sisters in Israel. Perhaps it was always there, silently gathering strength; but in these past three weeks it is impossible to ignore.

...

Rav Binyamin Machluf introduced us to the army base at Tziporit; a place of tears and kedusha like no other. “Here,” he explained, “we identify the bodies of those who were murdered.”

“We have fingerprint scanners, a dental team, and DNA lab. There are things that we have seen that no person should ever see. So many tears. So much pain. But the hardest thing that I have to do, is to tell a parent that their child is in this place.”

There is a large team of soldiers on the base. Rabbis, doctors, dentists, scientists. All who have left their regular lives to re-enlist in the sacred units of those who bring comfort, closure and kedusha to Jews living through Gehenom, as those who they love rise to Gan Eden.

At this base, like all others, there is simply no distinction between right and left, religious or secular. The have worked sleeplessly for three weeks, and will continue to do so until there are no more tears to shed.

It struck me as we got back onto the bus that these soldiers have witnessed the worst of the worst. They have seen the brutality and cruelty of our enemies with their own eyes. Yet, amazingly, they carry no anger. There is no rage, no vengeance. There is singing, laughter, friendship and an iron clad resolve that they will return home only once the enemy is completely and utterly destroyed.

This feeling was ubiquitous from base to base, from every soldier we met.

In the hearts and minds of our Chayalim, there is no question about whether we will win or lose. They have full confidence that we will win. It is already a forgone conclusion; a story that must unfold. Each of them is ready to give their lives to ensure it. Their unity is infectious; there is no fear, no hesitation.

They are no afraid of losing the war. They are afraid of losing each other again.

Something has changed in this country.

...

The Medrash (ילקוט שמעוני על התורה ק״א) tells us that as Avraham stretched out his hand to perform the Akeida, the Neshama of Yitzchak left his body and flew to Shamayim:

ר' יהודה אומר כיון שהגיע החרב לצואר פרחה ויצאה נשמתו של יצחק. וכיון שהשמיע קולו מבין שני הכרובים אל תשלח ידך אל הנער חזרה נפשו לגופו והתירו ועמד יצחק וידע יצחק שכך עתידים המתים לחיות ופתח ואמר בא”י מחיה המתים.

When Yitzchak heard from the between the Keruvim “Do not lay a hand on that boy,” his soul returned to his body. At that moment, yitzchak knew that the revival of the dead will one day come to be, and he made the bracha “He who revives the dead.”

The Malbim (בראשית כב:ט) explains this enigmatic Medrash:

According to the laws of nature, Avraham and Sarah were childless. Both of them infertile, and well beyond child bearing years. Yet, through their immense greatness and merit, Hashem granted them a miracle child: Yitzchak.

This means that the existence of the Jewish people is antithetical to nature. We exist miraculously on the merits of of own greatness. But were it to ever happen that we would fall from these heights, the miracle of our existence would cease. We would be no longer.

The Yitzchak of miracles died on the mizbeach that day.

וכשירד מן המזבח לא ירד אז יצחק הקודם שנולד נגד המערכה, רק יצחק אחר מוקדש לה' שאין לו עסק עם המערכה

The Yitzchak who relied on miracles and merits to exist was placed on the mizbeach. And an entirely different Yitzchak descended from that mizbeach. This Yitzchak is transcendently cleaving to Hashem. This Yitzchak has no connection to the limits of the natural world at all.

...

Something has changed in this country. There was a terrible Akeida on Simchas Torah. But in the days and weeks since that horrific day, there is a new Yitzchak, a new Jewish people.

This nation, our nation, is not interested in the words and wills of the world. They are in love with their land, in love with each other and desperately in love with Hashem.

They are heartbroken but completely whole. They have risen from the ashes and are fighting for us in Chutz La'aretz. They know that they will win, and they want to ensure that we have a safe place to call home.

More than anything, they want us to join them; they're are waiting for us to come home.