A Time to Pray and a Time to Act

The Torah is extraordinarily precise in its choice of words. Sometimes a single verb reveals not only what happened, but how it happened—and what it meant. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom elucidates here:

Faith, Action, and the Birth of a Nation

At the beginning of Parashat Beshalach, the Jewish people are described in strikingly different ways. At times they are called Ivrim—Hebrews—a term that can suggest passivity, displacement, even reluctance. At other moments, they are called Bnei Yisrael, a name of identity, destiny, and purpose. Most powerfully, the Torah tells us:

וַחֲמֻשִׁים עָלוּ בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם

And the Children of Israel went up from the land of Egypt armed.

On the simplest level, chamushim means physically armed—equipped for battle. Indeed, Rashi explains it as mezuyanim, armed and prepared. But Chazal see much more here. Rashi also cites the Midrash that only one-fifth of the people left Egypt. Whether taken literally or symbolically, the message is unmistakable: not everyone was ready. Not everyone had the clarity, faith, and courage to leave slavery behind and walk toward an unknown future.

Rabbeinu Bachya adds a profound layer. The word chamushim is written without a vav, allowing it to be read as chamishim—fifty. The people who truly left Egypt knew exactly where they were going: toward Sinai, toward the fifty days that would culminate in Kabbalat HaTorah. They were not merely fleeing Egypt; they were moving with purpose toward destiny.

This distinction lies at the heart of the parashah. From the very beginning of Jewish history, there were different groups within Klal Yisrael. There were followers—those swept along by events, uncertain, reactive. And there were leaders—men and women who knew why they were leaving, where they were going, and what it meant to be a Jew.

Faith Alone Is Not Enough

This tension reaches its dramatic peak at the Sea. The Torah describes the moment with breathtaking honesty:

וַיִּירְאוּ מְאֹד

And they were very afraid.

Yet only one verse earlier we are told:

וּבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל יֹצְאִים בְּיָד רָמָה

The Children of Israel were going out with a high hand.

How can these two descriptions coexist? Had they not already seen Egypt humbled? Had they not experienced miracles beyond imagination? Moshe responds instinctively—he prays. And then comes one of the most shocking verses in the Torah:

מַה־תִּצְעַק אֵלָי? דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִסָּעוּ

Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to the Children of Israel that they should travel.

How can prayer be dismissed at the moment of greatest danger? Rashi, followed by Siftei Chachamim, explains something revolutionary: faith without action is ineffective. Until this moment, the Jewish people had believed—but they had not acted. They had been carried out of Egypt on miracles, protected on all sides. Their faith had never been tested through risk.

Now, for the first time, Hashem demands action. Step into the sea while it is still water. Only afterward will it split. This is not a limitation of prayer. It is its completion. Prayer that does not lead to movement remains incomplete.

Redemption Requires Movement

Rav Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal, in his monumental work Eim HaBanim Semeichah, applies this principle directly to our generation. All Jews believe in Mashiach. That belief has survived exile, persecution, and upheaval. But belief alone does not redeem. Redemption begins when faith expresses itself through action. A Jew who waits passively for Mashiach to carry him to Eretz Yisrael reveals—not strength of faith—but its absence. True belief moves a person forward. It compels planning, sacrifice, and concrete steps. Just as at the Sea, Hashem says to every generation: Do not only cry out to Me. Travel.

Two Halves of Jewish Life

Parashat Beshalach is almost surgically divided into two equal halves. The first half is miraculous. Hashem carries His people, protects them, overwhelms their enemies, and reveals His power openly. The people simply watch. The second half begins with the word vayisa—and suddenly everything changes. No water. Bitter water. Hunger. Manna with restrictions. Shabbat tests. Amalek. Trial after trial.

This is Jewish life.

There are moments of clear divine gift—matanot Elokim—when we see Hashem’s hand unmistakably. And there are long stretches of nisayon, where faith must be lived, not merely felt.

The Kli Yakar explains that the wilderness trained the people to live with minimum physical dependency. Not asceticism—but restraint. A Jew must learn to engage with the physical world without becoming enslaved to it. Excess attachment to material comfort dulls spiritual purpose.

This is why our prayers begin with praise before petition. First, we acknowledge the gifts. Then, we ask for the strength to navigate challenge.

The True Weapon of Israel

The Torah tells us that the Jewish people left Egypt armed—but the most powerful weapon they carried was not a sword. They carried the bones of Yosef. Chazal note that the sea fled (vayanos) when it “saw” Yosef. The same word appears when Yosef fled from immorality in Egypt. The merit of moral courage, of self-restraint, of fidelity to divine purpose—that is what split the sea. Weapons protect the body. Values split seas.

Leaders, Not Followers

From the very beginning, Klal Yisrael contained both am and Bnei Yisrael—followers and leaders, the uncertain and the purposeful.

Our task is clear. We must raise ourselves, our children, and our grandchildren to be armed—not only physically, but intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. Armed with clarity. Armed with emunah. Armed with purpose. The Jewish people were not redeemed because they prayed alone. They were redeemed because they moved forward.

And that remains the law of redemption—then, and now.

“Speak to the Children of Israel—and let them travel.”

Blood on the Doorposts: Becoming a People

Blood. Its connotations and symbolism are rich, pointing to both life and death. Blood also plays a central role in the birth of the Jewish nation. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains:

The night of the Exodus was not merely the end of slavery. It was the birth of a nation.

When the blood of the Korban Pesach was placed upon the doorposts, something irreversible occurred. Until that moment, the descendants of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov were a collection of individuals—families bound by ancestry and suffering, but not yet a people in the fullest sense. On that night, in the land of Egypt, Klal Yisrael came into being. From that moment onward, Jewish history no longer speaks about individuals alone. It speaks about destiny, collective responsibility, and a people bound together by covenant.

“Mishchu”—The First Word of Redemption

Moshe Rabbeinu introduces the command of the Korban Pesach with a striking phrase:

מִשְׁכוּ וּקְחוּ לָכֶם צֹאן לְמִשְׁפְּחֹתֵיכֶם וְשַׁחֲטוּ הַפָּסַח

“Draw forth and take for yourselves a lamb for your families, and slaughter the Pesach offering” (Shemot 12:21)

The word מִשְׁכוּ (mishchu) is unusual. It does not simply mean “take.” In Biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, it means to be drawn toward, to be attracted, to form a bond. In Shir HaShirim, the language of love between the Beloved and the beloved, we find the same root:

מָשְׁכֵנִי אַחֲרֶיךָ נָּרוּצָה

“Draw me after You—let us run” (Shir HaShirim 1:4).

To be redeemed, the Jewish people were not merely commanded to perform a technical act. They were commanded to be drawn toward a mitzvah—to engage emotionally, spiritually, and existentially. Yet Chazal point out something profound. The very same root, מ־ש־ך, can also mean the opposite: to withdraw, to disengage. In later Hebrew usage, limshoch et yadayim means to resign, to step back. This dual meaning reveals a deep truth about human transformation: One cannot be drawn toward holiness unless one is also willing to disengage from what contradicts it. Klal Yisrael had to be drawn toward the Korban Pesach—and simultaneously withdraw from the idolatry of Egypt. As the Midrash teaches, the gods of Egypt were lambs. To take a lamb, tie it to the bedpost, and slaughter it publicly was an act of spiritual rebellion. Redemption required courage, separation, and clarity.

The Tragedy of Those Who Could Not Let Go

Chazal tell us that not all Jews were able to make this break. Many had become deeply assimilated—emotionally invested in Egyptian culture, success, and belief systems. They could not disengage, and therefore they could not engage. During the plague of darkness, they perished unseen.

Rashi explains: Why was darkness brought? Because there were wicked Israelites in that generation who did not want to leave Egypt, and they died during the days of darkness, so that the Egyptians would not see them and say, “They too are being afflicted like us.” Midrash Tanchuma adds that these Jews were comfortable, respected, and prosperous in exile. They did not want redemption. This is a sobering truth: redemption is offered to all, but embraced only by those willing to leave exile behind.

Redemption Requires Mitzvot

There is another obstacle that had to be addressed. The prophet Yechezkel describes the moment of redemption with startling imagery:

וָאֶעֱבֹר עָלַיִךְ וָאֶרְאֵךְ מִתְבּוֹסֶסֶת בְּדָמָיִךְ… וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי

“I passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood… and I said to you: By your blood, live” (Yechezkel 16:6).

Rashi explains: They were naked of mitzvot. Redemption was ready—but the people were not yet worthy recipients. A fundamental principle emerges: even when God wishes to bestow infinite kindness, we must create vessels to receive it. Those vessels are mitzvot. Two mitzvot were given at that moment: Korban Pesach and Brit Milah.

Blood That Gives Life

Blood usually signifies loss of life. Here, it signifies life itself.

וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי – בְּדַם פֶּסַח וּבְדַם מִילָה

“By your blood, live—by the blood of Pesach and the blood of circumcision.”

A national revival of Brit Milah took place in Egypt because no uncircumcised male could partake of the Pesach offering. These were not passive merits, such as not changing names or clothing. As the Kli Yakar explains, redemption requires active mitzvot, not merely restraint. These two mitzvot transformed a group of slaves into Am Yisrael.

Inner and Outer Strength

The Chatam Sofer offers a penetrating insight. Brit Milah represents mastery over the inner negative forces—ego, jealousy, desire, and aggression. It is a covenant inscribed upon the body itself. Korban Pesach represents resistance to external corruption—the rejection of foreign gods, values, and identities. Redemption demands both. The Maharal deepens this further. He distinguishes between mitzvot of doing and mitzvot of being. Many mitzvot involve actions we perform. Brit Milah defines who we are. It is not something we do repeatedly; it is something that defines our identity forever.

Darkness and Destiny

The plague of darkness was not only punishment—it was separation. Those who could not envision a future in the land of destiny could not survive the transition. Chazal debate how many Jews left Egypt—one-fifth, one-fiftieth, even fewer. Whatever the number, the message is clear: comfort in exile can be more dangerous than oppression. Yet God, Who sees beyond the present, preserved those who—even while flawed—would soon stand at Sinai and proclaim:

נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע

“We will do, and we will hear.”

A Template for All Redemption

The redemption from Egypt is the blueprint for every redemption—national and personal. It begins with mishchu: disengaging from inner and outer negativity, and being drawn toward covenant, mitzvah, and destiny. God is always willing to give. The question is not whether redemption will come—but whether we are ready to receive it. And when we are, He says to us again:

בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי

“By your blood, live.”

Torah and the Land: A Heritage That Cannot Be Divided

The Torah and Eretz Yisrael were given in a single utterance. They are not parallel gifts, nor independent pillars of Jewish life, but two expressions of one indivisible covenant. Jewish destiny is unintelligible without either one, and incomplete when they are separated. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains how this is so.

The Torah describes itself as a morashah:

תּוֹרָה צִוָּה לָנוּ מֹשֶׁה מוֹרָשָׁה קְהִלַּת יַעֲקֹב

 “Moshe commanded us the Torah, an inheritance— a heritage—of the congregation of Yaakov.” (Devarim 33:4).

And the Land of Israel is described in precisely the same terms:

וְנָתַתִּי אֹתָהּ לָכֶם מוֹרָשָׁה

 “I will give it to you as a heritage.” (Shemot 6:8).

This shared language is not stylistic coincidence. It is a deliberate equivalence.The same word—morashah. This is not coincidence. It is a gezerah shavah of destiny. Torah and Eretz Yisrael are bound by the same word because they are bound by the same essence.

Inheritance, Not Argument

When the Torah is called a morashah, it tells us something fundamental about how we relate to it. Our commitment to Torah does not rest on philosophical proofs or intellectual constructions. Such arguments, however sophisticated, can always be challenged or dismantled. Instead, Torah is ours because we received it—because more than two million Jews stood at Sinai and heard the Divine voice, and that experience was transmitted faithfully from generation to generation.

Inheritance does not need proof. It only needs continuity. The same is true of Eretz Yisrael. Our claim to the Land does not ultimately rest on conquest, diplomacy, or historical accident. Anything acquired by force can be undone by force. Anything established by agreement can be revoked by agreement. Only inheritance is beyond dispute.

The Torah itself serves as our deed of ownership. It testifies that the Creator of the world gave the Land to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, to be passed down eternally to their descendants. This is not a political claim; it is a covenantal one.

There is, however, a condition embedded in inheritance. A heritage can only be received by heirs who remain loyal to it. When descendants walk in the ways of their forefathers, the inheritance flows naturally to them. When they abandon those ways, the inheritance becomes inaccessible, even if they physically possess it. Torah and Land rise together—and they falter together.

Heritage, Not Property

A further distinction sharpens this idea: the difference between yerushah (inheritance) and morashah (heritage). An inheritance can be used, invested, squandered, or discarded at will. A heritage, by contrast, must be preserved intact and transmitted faithfully.

Torah is not ours to reshape according to fashion, reinterpret at convenience, or neglect when uncomfortable. We are guardians, not owners. The same is true of Eretz Yisrael. It is not a disposable asset or a negotiable abstraction. It is a sacred trust, given so that Jewish life can unfold fully and faithfully upon it.

Fire and Ice: Mak’at Barad

This unity of Torah, Land, and Divine sovereignty finds a striking expression in the plague of barad, the seventh plague in Egypt. The Torah describes it in extraordinary terms:

וַיְהִי בָּרָד וְאֵשׁ מִתְלַקַּחַת בְּתוֹךְ הַבָּרָד

 “There was hail, with fire blazing בתוך the hail.”  (Shemot 9:24).

This was not merely an unusually violent storm. It was a fundamental suspension of the laws of nature. Fire and water—elements that naturally extinguish one another—coexisted within a single phenomenon. Unlike other plagues, which could be rationalized as extreme but natural events, barad shattered the very framework through which nature is understood.

For this reason, barad is described as a culmination of the plagues. For the first time, Pharaoh fully acknowledges the moral and theological truth before him. He sees, however briefly, that nature itself is subject to a higher will.

Chazal identify this harmony of opposites as a hallmark of Divine action, echoing the words we recite daily:

עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו

 “He makes peace in His heights.”

Peace between fire and water. Peace between forces that cannot coexist—unless commanded to do so by their Creator.

Education, Not Only Punishment

Again and again, the Torah explains that the plagues were sent “so that Egypt will know that I am Hashem.” This emphasis is striking. If the goal were merely to free Israel, countless simpler methods were available. The plagues were not only punitive; they were pedagogical.

The Exodus was meant to educate—not only Israel, but humanity. It was the foundational revelation of Divine mastery over history and nature, a template upon which all future redemption would be built. Even though Egypt ultimately perished, the process itself had to carry within it the possibility of recognition and transformation.

Fear and Indifference

During the plague of barad, Egyptian society fractures for the first time. Some fear the word of Hashem and bring their livestock indoors. Others ignore the warning and suffer devastating loss. The Torah does not describe the latter as defiant or ideological. It portrays them as indifferent.

Indifference is more dangerous than opposition. It requires no argument and no courage—only disengagement. Those who do not care will follow anything, submit to anything, and ultimately stand for nothing. Comfort breeds apathy, and apathy paralyzes moral choice.

The Narrow Path

Chazal describe the human condition as a narrow path, flanked by fire on one side and ice on the other. Fire represents unrestrained passion and desire; ice represents apathy and spiritual numbness. Both destroy. One burns, the other freezes.

The message of barad is not destruction, but harmony. Fire and ice can coexist when they are governed by a higher will. This balance—neither frozen indifference nor consuming excess—is the Torah’s vision of human life.

Torah and Eretz Yisrael embody that vision together. They are a single heritage, entrusted to us not for convenience or comfort, but for responsibility and continuity.

A Promise Renewed

The story that began in Egypt has not ended. It continues to unfold in every generation, calling upon us to choose loyalty over indifference and guardianship over neglect.

וְהֵבֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם אֶל־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נָשָׂאתִי אֶת־יָדִי לָתֵת אֹתָהּ לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב וְנָתַתִּי אֹתָהּ לָכֶם מוֹרָשָׁה אֲנִי ה׳

 “I will bring you to the Land that I swore to give to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, and I will give it to you as a heritage—I am Hashem.” (Shemot 6:8).

Torah and the Land were given together. They endure together. And they will ultimately be fulfilled together.

The Light of Moshe Rabbenu: Lessons in Leadership, Redemption, and Torah

The early chapters of Shemot introduce us to a seemingly simple story: the birth of Moshe Rabbenu, a child hidden by his mother for three months to protect him from Pharaoh’s officers. Yet, within these sparse verses lies a profound spiritual narrative, rich with lessons on creation, leadership, and the enduring resilience of the Jewish people. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

A New Creation: The Spiritual Light of Moshe

Rashi describes Moshe as “ki tov hu,” a lovely child. At first glance, this seems obvious—every mother sees her child as beautiful. The Ran, however, asks: what is special here? The answer lies in a deeper understanding: Moshe’s birth represents a new creation, echoing the beginning of the universe. Just as God created light at the dawn of time (Bereishit 1:3), Moshe enters the world as a vessel of spiritual illumination.

This is not ordinary light. Rashi explains that the light of the first day was hidden—a spiritual light, reserved for the righteous. The Zohar adds that this light symbolizes divine wisdom and the power of Torah. Moshe’s mother recognized that her child was not just beautiful in appearance but radiated an inner spiritual light, a force capable of guiding the Jewish people through darkness and oppression. This hidden light is emblematic of God’s presence in the world. Even in the most difficult circumstances, sparks of holiness exist, waiting to be nurtured and brought into the open.

The Challenge of Redemption: Moshe at the Burning Bush

When God commands Moshe to redeem the Israelites, he hesitates—not once, but four times. Why would the prophet tasked with leading the people resist his divine mission?

The first reason is practical: the Israelites had spent over two centuries in Egypt, immersed in idolatry and moral corruption. To Moshe, the task seemed impossible. Yet God knew what Moshe could not: the Jewish soul contains an indestructible spark, capable of returning to holiness even from the lowest depths. The midrash emphasizes that, even at the nadir of spiritual decline, the potential for redemption remains.

Moshe’s reluctance also reflects a profound ethical sensitivity. Applying the principles of Derech Eretz, he hesitated out of respect for his older brother, Aharon. Leadership, he understood, is not simply about power or position; it requires consideration, respect, and moral integrity. Only when assured that Aharon would support him did Moshe accept the mission.

These lessons resonate today: redemption often seems impossible, and leadership is never easy. Yet with patience, ethical discernment, and faith, transformation is always possible.

Torah as a Guide: Beyond the Literal Word

Moshe’s leadership also exemplifies the proper engagement with Torah. When counting the Israelites, he refrained from entering the tents of nursing infants, showing respect for their dignity. The Torah is not merely a set of literal commands; it is a moral and spiritual guide, requiring thoughtful interpretation and ethical application.

The Zohar likens Moshe to a lens, focusing divine light into the world. His leadership demonstrates that spiritual guidance, ethical sensitivity, and wisdom are inseparable. True understanding of the Torah, like leadership itself, requires depth, reflection, and insight.

Conclusion: Lessons for Our Lives

From Moshe’s birth and mission, three key lessons emerge:

1. Every spark of light matters. Just as Moshe brought spiritual illumination into the world, each of us can bring light through our actions, words, and choices.
2. Redemption is possible, even from the lowest point. Spiritual and moral renewal is always within reach, no matter how far someone has strayed.
3. Ethical discernment is essential to leadership. Courage alone is not enough; wisdom, morality, and respect are integral to guiding others.

The story of Moshe Rabbenu reminds us that even in darkness, light can emerge. It teaches us that leadership, redemption, and Torah are deeply intertwined, and that every individual carries within them a spark capable of illuminating the world.

Forgiveness, Unity, and the Architecture of Redemption

 In this post our member Rabbi Paul Bloom considers the fragile emotional state of Yaakov's family after his decease, and describes its route to reconciliation and the prospect for redemption.  

The Final Moral Vision of Sefer Bereishit

 The closing chapter of Sefer Bereishit brings us to a moment charged with fear, memory, and moral reckoning. Yaakov Avinu has died. He has been mourned, escorted with great honor from Egypt to Chevron, and buried in Ma’arat HaMachpelah. The family returns to Egypt—but the emotional equilibrium has shifted irrevocably.

 Yosef is no longer simply a brother. He is the all-powerful viceroy of the mightiest empire on earth. The brothers, stripped of the protective presence of their father, are suddenly terrified. As long as Yaakov lived, they believed that Yosef’s resentment—if it still existed—was held in check. Now, they fear, the reckoning may come.

 The Torah describes their anxiety (at Bereishit 50:15):

וַיִּרְאוּ אֲחֵי-יוֹסֵף, כִּי-מֵת אֲבִיהֶם, וַיֹּאמְרוּ, לוּ יִשְׂטְמֵנוּ יוֹסֵף; וְהָשֵׁב יָשִׁיב, לָנוּ, אֵת כָּל-הָרָעָה, אֲשֶׁר גָּמַלְנוּ אֹתוֹ 

When Yosef’s brothers saw that their father had died, they said: ‘Perhaps Yosef will bear hatred toward us and repay us for all the evil we inflicted upon him. 

Fear gives birth to a message. They send word to Yosef (Bereishit 50:16–17):

 וַיְצַוּוּ אֶל-יוֹסֵף לֵאמֹר אָבִיךָ צִוָּה, לִפְנֵי מוֹתוֹ לֵאמֹר

כֹּה-תֹאמְרוּ לְיוֹסֵף, אָנָּא שָׂא נָא פֶּשַׁע אַחֶיךָ וְחַטָּאתָם כִּי-רָעָה גְמָלוּךָ   

Your father commanded before his death, saying: ‘So shall you say to Yosef—please forgive the transgression of your brothers and their sin, for they caused you great harm.

 A “White Lie” — or a Deeper Truth?

Chazal, followed by Rashi, make a striking assertion. Yaakov never said this. Based on the Gemara (Yevamot 65b),  "A person is permitted to deviate from the truth for the sake of peace". According to this approach, the brothers altered the truth—not for personal gain, but to avert danger and preserve harmony.  Yosef himself would have known immediately that this message could not be literally true. He had never told his father what happened. The brothers had never told him either.

The Ramban emphasizes that Yaakov went to his grave without ever knowing of the sale of Yosef. One of the clearest proofs appears in Yaakov’s final blessings. He rebukes Shimon and Levi for the massacre of Shechem (Bereishit 49:5), yet he never mentions the attempted destruction of Yosef. Had Yaakov known, silence would have been impossible. Clearly, he never knew. But I would like to suggest a deeper reading—one in which the brothers’ message was not a lie at all.

 “Gather Together” — Yaakov’s True Final Command

 Before Yaakov begins blessing his sons individually, he summons them with charged language (Bereishit 49:1):

הֵאָסְפוּ וְאַגִּידָה לָכֶם, אֵת אֲשֶׁר-יִקְרָא אֶתְכֶם, בְּאַחֲרִית הַיָּמִים 

Gather yourselves, and I will tell you what will befall you at the end of days. 

Chazal explain that Yaakov sought to reveal the ultimate future—the trajectory of redemption—but this knowledge was withheld. The future is not meant to be predicted; it is meant to be created. Absolute foreknowledge would paralyze human freedom.

 Yet something essential was revealed. Yaakov continues (Bereishit 49:2):

 הִקָּבְצוּ וְשִׁמְעוּ, בְּנֵי יַעֲקֹב; וְשִׁמְעוּ, אֶל-יִשְׂרָאֵל אֲבִיכֶם 

Come together and listen, sons of Yaakov; listen to Israel, your father.

 The repeated call to gather—using two distinct Hebrew verbs—conveys a foundational truth: the future of Am Yisrael depends on unity. This, I suggest, is what the brothers meant when they said, *“Your father commanded us.”* Not that he uttered those precise words, but that he left them with an unmistakable mandate: Redemption requires unity.  Unity requires forgiveness.

Yosef’s Answer: Forgiveness as the Engine of History

 Yosef’s response confirms this reading (Bereishit 50:19–20):

 וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם יוֹסֵף, אַל-תִּירָאוּ:  כִּי הֲתַחַת אֱלֹהִים, אָנִי

וְאַתֶּם, חֲשַׁבְתֶּם עָלַי רָעָה; אֱלֹהִים, חֲשָׁבָהּ לְטֹבָה

Do not be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended evil against me—but God transformed it into good. Intentions still matter.

The brothers must answer to God for their moral failure. But history, Yosef teaches, is shaped by Divine purpose. Forgiveness is not denial of pain—it is commitment to the future.

Unity Without Uniformity

Yet a final question remains. If unity is so central, why does Yaakov emphasize difference? Why bless each son individually? Why assign each tribe a unique destiny? The Torah’s answer emerges later in the desert. The tribes encamp separately, each with its own banner, surrounding a single center (Bamidbar 2:2):

אִישׁ עַל-דִּגְלוֹ בְאֹתֹת לְבֵית אֲבֹתָם, יַחֲנוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל:  מִנֶּגֶד, סָבִיב לְאֹהֶל-מוֹעֵד יַחֲנוּ

Each person by his banner, with the signs of his father’s house, shall the children of Israel encamp—facing and surrounding the Tent of Meeting.

 Unity does not require sameness. Diversity flourishes when oriented toward a shared spiritual center.

 Twelve Windows, One Heaven

 The Zohar teaches that ideally a synagogue should contain twelve windows—corresponding to the twelve tribes. Each shevet’s prayers ascend through a different spiritual channel. Different nuschaot, different paths—but one destination. What unites us is not uniform practice, but shared faith.

 The Closing Message of Bereishit

 When the brothers say to Yosef (Bereishit 50:17):

אָנָּא שָׂא נָא פֶּשַׁע אַחֶיךָ וְחַטָּאתָם כִּי-רָעָה גְמָלוּךָ 

Please forgive the transgression of the servants of your father’s God,

 they reveal the deepest source of Jewish unity. Even when brotherhood alone is strained, we are bound by something deeper: we are servants of the God of Yaakov.

 Bereishit closes not merely with reconciliation, but with a blueprint for redemption: A people of distinct voices, united by faith, sustained by forgiveness, and committed to a shared destiny.

 That is the strength of Israel. And that is the path to geulah.

Between Siege and Silence: What the Fast of Tevet Teaches Us Now

Tomorrow is Asarah beTevet, the Fast of the Tenth of Tevet, which comes with an interesting story that I would like to share with you, writes our member Rabbi Paul Bloom.

The Four Fast Days – A Chronological Map of Destruction

Chazal instituted four fast days connected to the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. Each marks a different stage—not only historically, but spiritually.

Let’s lay them out chronologically:

1. Asarah beTevet – 10 Tevet
   This marks the beginning of the siege of Jerusalem by Nevuchadnezzar, king of Babylonia. Nothing was destroyed that day. No walls fell. No fire burned. But the process began.
2. Shivah Asar beTammuz –17 Tammuz
   This marks the breach of Jerusalem’s walls—by the Romans, during the Second Temple period.
3. Tishah beAv –  9 Av
   The destruction of both Temples:

○      The First Temple by Babylonia

○      The Second Temple by Rome

4. Tzom Gedaliah –3 Tishrei
   After the First Temple was destroyed, Nevuchadnezzar appointed Gedaliah ben Achikam, a Jewish governor, to rule the remnant in Eretz Yisrael. When Gedaliah was assassinated. As long as he lived, there was hope. His death ended that hope.

Notice something striking:

●      Asarah beTevet → First Temple

●      Shivah Asar beTammuz → Second Temple

●      Tishah beAv → Both Temples

●      Tzom Gedaliah → First Temple

Already, we see that destruction is not one moment—it is a process.

The Deeper Roots: These Tragedies Began Much Earlier

Chazal teach us that these fast days are not only about what happened historically—but about what caused it spiritually.

●      Tishah beAv traces back to the sin of the Meraglim, the spies. The Jewish people cried needlessly and lost faith in Hashem’s promise. Hashem said: You cried for nothing—this will become a day of eternal crying.

●      Shivah Asar beTammuz traces back to the Golden Calf. Moshe broke the Tablets on that very day. This was a failure of faith—and a flirtation with idolatry.

●      Asarah beTevet, according to later traditions, is connected to the sale of Yosef—baseless hatred between brothers.

So look at the pattern:

●      Golden Calf → lack of faith

●      Meraglim → despair and fear

●      Yosef’s sale → hatred and division

The Beit HaMikdash was destroyed later. But the causes were planted at the very birth of the nation.

What Does It Mean to Rebuild the Beit HaMikdash?

When 10 Tevet arrives, we are supposed to think about the Beit HaMikdash. But rebuilding the Temple does not mean climbing the Temple Mount and laying stones. Chazal are very clear: You build the Temple first in your heart.

When enough Jews create space for the Shechinah within themselves—when faith replaces fear, when humility replaces ego, when love replaces hatred—that’s when the Beit HaMikdash returns. The Temple is not just a building. It is the presence of Hashem in the world—felt, experienced, transformative.

October 7: Tragedy—and a Missed Opportunity

We cannot speak about destruction and rebuilding without mentioning October 7. It was a catastrophe, a wound that is still bleeding, a war we are still living through. And in some mysterious, irrational way, it also unleashed a global resurgence of antisemitism—precisely when compassion would have been the logical response. But if there was any silver lining, it was this: For a brief moment, we were unified.

Before October 7, Israeli society was dangerously fractured:

●      There was talk of civil war

●      Judicial reform was tearing the country apart

●      Reservists threatened not to report

●      Businesses were withdrawing capital.

Then came the tragedy—and suddenly we remembered who we are. We stood together.

But here is the painful truth. As the war dragged on, exhaustion set in. Old habits returned. The elastic band snapped back. And that may be the greatest tragedy of all. Suffering that transforms us redeems. But suffering that leaves us unchanged is suffering wasted.

If I went through October 7—and I am still exactly who I was on October 6—then something has gone terribly wrong.

A Strange Halachic Anomaly: Asarah beTevet and Shabbat

Here is something remarkable. Generally, we do not fast on Shabbat, or even on Friday—so we don’t enter Shabbat weak and deprived. Yet 10 Tevet can fall on Friday, and when it does, we fast straight into Shabbat. The Abudraham goes even further and says something astonishing: If 10 Tevet could fall on Shabbat, we would fast even then.

This is purely theoretical—it cannot happen due to the structure of the calendar. But why would the beginning of a siege override Shabbat, when even Tishah beAv does not? Why would the start be treated more severely than the destruction itself? There are several reasons, but let me present just two of them.

The phrase עֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑הב (on this very day) appears in the Torah for Yom Kippur (Vayikra 23:28)  and it is also applied to 10 Tevet in Ezekiel 24:2:

בֶּן־אָדָ֗ם כְּתֹוב־ לְךָ֙ אֶת־שֵׁ֣ם הַיּ֔וֹם אֶת־עֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה סָמַ֚ךְ מֶלֶךְ־בָּבֶל֙ אֶל־יְר֣וּשָׁלַ֔ם בְּעֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֥וֹם הַזֶּֽה

This references the start of the Babylonian siege, making both these fasts fixed to their specific dates, unlike other fasts which can be postponed if they fall on Shabbat. This connection means that the Tenth of Tevet, like Yom Kippur, must be observed on the actual day, emphasizing its unique stringency, as noted by commentators like the Abudraham.

A second reason might be that sometimes the beginning—the moment we fail to stop something—is more dangerous than the end.

Three Days of Silence: 8, 9, and 10 Tevet

Chazal record that some tzaddikim fasted not one day—but three: 8, 9 and 10 Tevet—and each for a different reason.

8 Tevet – The Torah in Greek

On this day, the translation of the Torah into Greek was completed—the Septuagint. Ptolemy II Philadelphus, the Greek Pharaoh of Egypt who reigned from 285–246 BCE, gathered 70 sages, placed them in separate rooms, and commanded them to translate the Torah. Miraculously, they all produced the same translation. Yet this was considered a tragedy. Why?

●      A translation can never capture the full depth of Torah

●      It opened the door to distortion and misuse

●      And perhaps most painfully—it meant Jews themselves needed translation

A crutch is a blessing—but it also means your legs are broken.

 9 Tevet – A Fast Whose Reason Is Hidden

The Gemara says something chilling: “There was a fast on the 9th of Tevet—but the reason was not revealed”. Three possible explanations are given:

1. The yahrzeit of Ezra HaSofer
   The spiritual architect of the Second Temple era, a second Moshe.
2. The Hebrew birthdate of Jesus
   Given the suffering Christianity inflicted on Jews, some tzaddikim fasted on that day and the reason was hidden—for survival.
3. The yahrzeit of Shimon Keifa (Simon Peter)
   According to a later Midrash, Peter was a righteous Jew who deliberately separated Christianity from Judaism—at the cost of his own Olam HaBa—to protect Am Yisrael.

This tradition is not authoritative—but it is profound. And perhaps that is why the reason was kept secret: because truth, when misunderstood, can be dangerous.

So What Do We Do Now?

We stand between:

●      Siege and silence

●      Faith and fear

●      Unity and division

The Beit HaMikdash can be rebuilt any day—except Shabbat. May it be rebuilt today, so this fast becomes a day of celebration.

And, if not—may this be the last fast we ever need, because we finally learned what destruction was trying to teach us.