Approaching with Humility

 This item is also published in today's Hanassi Highlights. An AI-generated version of the text in Ivrit is reproduced here.

Parashat Shemini brings us to a moment of culmination. After the long process beginning with the Exodus, the construction of the Mishkan is complete, and the eighth day finally arrives—the moment at which the Divine Presence will dwell among the people.

At the centre of that moment stands Aharon HaKohen, the same Aharon who is praised for fulfilling the command to light the Menorah without deviation. Aharon is the model of zerizut, of faithful and consistent avodat Hashem without hesitation.

And yet, here, at the very inauguration of his service, he hesitates.

Aharon must be encouraged: “Krav el hamizbe’ach”—“Come forward to the altar.” The wording is striking.

Rashi explains that he was overcome with shame and fear. The Ramban adds that the appearance of the mizbeach evoked for him the image of the Golden Calf. At the threshold of his greatest role, Aharon is confronted by a lingering sense of failure. How could he be the one to bring about the resting of the Shechinah?

Yet he is told: “Why are you ashamed? For this you were chosen.” Chazal’s formulation can be read in more than one way: not only that Aharon was chosen for this service, but that he was chosen for it precisely because of his reluctance.

Aharon’s hesitation is not incidental. It reflects a profound awareness of the gravity of avodat Hashem. He does not approach the mizbe’ach lightly. He is conscious of the responsibility, and of his own limitations. That very awareness is what qualifies him.

This becomes clearer when set against the later episode of Nadav and Avihu. They bring an esh zarah, a fire that was not commanded, and suffer tragic consequences. Chazal offer a range of explanations, but a common thread emerges: a failure of restraint, an element of overconfidence. Where Aharon hesitates before acting, they do not.

The contrast is sharpened further by Aharon’s response to their tragic deaths: “Vayidom Aharon”—“Aharon was silent.” Even in the face of personal tragedy, he does not presume to explain. His silence reflects the same humility that marked his hesitation at the outset.

Aharon’s greatness lies not in certainty, but in perspective—the ability to carry responsibility without the illusion of complete mastery.

“Krav el hamizbe’ach.” The call to step forward remains. It is a call to step forward with awareness—with the knowledge that what we are doing matters, and that even when we do not feel fully equal to the task, we are called nonetheless.

Perhaps that is the enduring lesson of Aharon’s first step: not that one must feel ready, or certain, or even worthy, but that one must be willing to approach, carrying that very sense of hesitation.

For it is not despite that hesitation that a person is able to step forward—but sometimes precisely because of it.

Shabbat Shalom!

 

Taking the First Step: Shabbat HaGadol 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 26 March. You can also read it in Hebrew here, thanks to ChatGPT.

The Shulchan Aruch tells us that the Shabbat before Pesach is called “the great Shabbat” (Shabbat HaGadol) because of the miracle that occurred on it, yet surprisingly offers no further elaboration. An entire siman is devoted simply to the fact that this Shabbat has a name, without any clear practical consequence. It leaves us wondering: what exactly is so significant about this “greatness,” and why does it matter?

The familiar explanation, recorded by the Tur, relates to what occurred just days before the Exodus. On the tenth of Nissan—Shabbat in that year—Bnei Yisrael were commanded to take a lamb and set it aside for the Korban Pesach, tying it to their bedposts in full view of the Egyptians, who worshipped the sheep as a deity. When challenged, they did not hide their intentions; they stated openly that they were preparing it for slaughter. The miracle was that the Egyptians saw and heard, yet did nothing.

The Bach, however, offers a striking shift in perspective. The real drama of that Shabbat, he suggests, was not the reaction of the Egyptians, but the transformation of Bnei Yisrael themselves. After generations in Egypt, they had not emerged untouched; Chazal describe a spiritual state in which they were not so easily distinguishable from their surroundings. Redemption could not begin until something changed from within.

Seen in that light, the act of taking the lamb was not merely a provocation of Egyptian idolatry, but a rejection of their own. It was a quiet but decisive break with the past—an indication that they were ready, at least in some initial sense, to move in a different direction. The miracle of Shabbat HaGadol was therefore not only that the Egyptians remained passive, but that a nation of slaves found the courage to take its first step toward freedom.

This reframes the entire process of ge’ulah. It is not only something that happens to a people, but something that begins with us. Before the dramatic miracles of the Exodus and the splitting of the sea, there was a moment no less significant: a willingness to step forward, to begin even before everything was fully in place.

That idea feels particularly resonant in our current moment. Jewish history rarely unfolds under ideal conditions, and the instinct can be to wait—for clarity, for stability, for a sense that the path ahead is fully secure. Yet Shabbat HaGadol reminds us that this is rarely how change actually begins. More often, it starts with a step taken within an incomplete reality, even while the wider picture is still unfolding.

As we approach the Seder, with all its focus on freedom and redemption, Shabbat HaGadol quietly sets the tone. It reminds us that freedom is not only something we commemorate, but something we prepare for. It begins with an inner shift—with a willingness to let go of what holds us back and to take a step, however small, toward something greater.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Obligation to Willingness: Vayikra 5786

 This post, first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 19 March 2026, can also be read in Ivrit, here, thanks to AI.

Sefer Vayikra is defined by precision. It is a world of careful detail, structure, and exact sequence. Therefore it is striking that, when the Torah introduces the system of korbanot, the order appears counterintuitive. Rather than beginning with the obligatory offerings (korbanot chovah), the Chumash opens with korbanot nedavah—voluntary offerings that may be brought of one’s choosing. As Rashi notes at the outset: “The topic begins with korbanot nedavah.” Only later does it turn to those korbanot that a person is required to bring. At first glance, this seems puzzling. If korbanot form a structured system of service, should not the essential come first? Surely what one must bring should precede what one may choose to bring.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe offers two complementary approaches. On a practical level, he suggests that these parshiyot reflect a moment of spiritual elevation, around the time of the Mishkan’s inauguration. At such a moment, the people were not primarily preoccupied with sin and atonement, but with contribution and closeness—responding to the call to build a dwelling place for the Shechinah. The korbanot most relevant were therefore voluntary—expressions of generosity and a desire to draw near to Hashem, rather than those required to atone for sin.

But beyond the historical context lies a deeper idea—one that speaks not only to korbanot, but to avodat Hashem as a whole.

The Ramban famously explains that the essence of a korban is internal, not merely ritual. One who brings a korban should imagine that what is being done to the animal ought, in truth, to have been done to him. The act is meant to awaken reflection, humility, and return. Without that inner process, the offering is empty. Indeed, the prophets repeatedly rebuke a nation that brings korbanot while remaining spiritually unchanged; in such cases, the korban becomes not only meaningless, but even offensive.

But this raises a question: if intention is so central, why does the Torah not state so explicitly?

Perhaps, rather than stating it explicitly, the Torah builds this message into the very structure of the parsha. By opening with korbanot nedavah, the Torah establishes a principle: the defining feature of a korban is not merely obligation, but willingness. Even a korban brought out of necessity must ultimately be rooted in a sense of inner offering and a readiness to give of oneself.

In this light, Rashi’s comment takes on new depth. “The topic begins with korbanot nedavah”—the very essence of korbanot is the spirit of voluntary giving. The opening section is not just one category among others; it sets the tone for all that follows.

This idea extends well beyond korbanot. Chazal teach that Hashem seeks the heart. Halachic observance is defined by action, but its vitality depends on the inner world that animates it. Two people may perform the same mitzvah; one does so mechanically, the other with intention and presence. Outwardly identical, inwardly worlds apart.

That may be the deeper message of the opening of Vayikra. Before speaking of obligation, it begins with nedavah—to teach that even what we must do should ultimately be done as if we have chosen it.

When duty is infused with that spirit, it is no longer experienced as burden, but as privilege. And it is in that space—where obligation becomes desire—that avodat Hashem reaches its fullest expression.

Shabbat Shalom!

Builders of Time and Space: Parshiyot Vayakhel–Pekudei and Parshat HaChodesh 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 12 March 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here. 

The central mitzvah of each of the two parshiyot that we read this week is puzzling in its own way.

If we were asked to choose the very first mitzvah the Jewish people should receive, it is unlikely that sanctifying the new moon would top the list. Why should this technical command about the calendar be the Torah’s opening mitzvah?

Similarly, the Torah devotes extraordinary attention to the Mishkan. Its construction is described at length, repeated again and again. Why does the Torah linger so extensively on these details?

A common theme links the two.

The command to build the Mishkan marked a profound turning point for the Jewish people. Until that moment, their experience had largely been one of witnessing miracles performed on their behalf: the plagues in Egypt, the splitting of the sea, and the miraculous sustenance of the desert. But the Mishkan required something new. It demanded initiative, craftsmanship, generosity, and creativity. The Torah repeatedly describes those whose hearts lifted them to participate—“kol asher nesa’o libo.” Through this project, a nation of former slaves became a nation of builders.

The Mishkan transformed the people from passive recipients into active participants in a sacred mission. Perhaps for the first time, they were not merely observing redemption; they were helping to shape it.

The same idea lies behind the mitzvah of Kiddush HaChodesh. Rav Soloveitchik pointed out that one of the defining differences between a slave and a free person is the relationship to time. A slave does not control time; time is imposed upon him. Only a free person is able to take responsibility for time.

In giving the Jewish people authority to sanctify the new month, the Torah effectively hands us the keys to the calendar. The festivals themselves depend on that human declaration—hence the beracha “mekadesh Yisrael vehazmanim”: first Israel, and through Israel, the sacred times.

These two mitzvot therefore define the beginning and the culmination of redemption. The Jewish people are entrusted with responsibility over both time and space—sanctifying time through the calendar and sanctifying space through the Mishkan.

Perhaps this is the deeper message of these readings. Redemption is not only something that happens to us; it is something we are called upon to build. Even after failure and setbacks—even after something as grave as the sin of the Golden Calf—the Torah reminds us that the Jewish people are capable of rising again, partnering with Hashem in shaping the world.

That calling remains with us today: to be builders—shaping the sacred spaces of our community and using the sacred time we are given to fill our lives with meaning.

Let the cow clean up the mess of the calf: Ki Tisa 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 March. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

Parshat Ki Tisa contains one of the most jarring moments in the Torah. Only weeks after the revelation at Har Sinai, Bnei Yisrael construct the Golden Calf. The speed of the collapse is almost as disturbing as the sin itself. How, so soon after Har Sinai, could the nation that heard the voice of Hashem fall so far?

Chazal link this parsha with Parshat Parah, which we also read this Shabbat. Their striking formulation is: “Tavo parah vetekane’ach et tzo’at b’nah” — let the cow come and clean up the mess made by her calf. On the surface, the association is symbolic. But the connection runs far deeper.

The Kuzari famously explains that, in building the Calf, the people were not consciously seeking to abandon Hashem. They were afraid. Moshe had not returned, and they felt spiritually disoriented and vulnerable. They wanted something tangible through which to focus their Divine service—a visible intermediary that would provide structure and reassurance.

In that sense, their impulse was not entirely foreign to the Torah itself. Surrounding the episode of the Calf are the parshiyot describing the Mishkan, with its physical vessels, sacred space, and golden keruvim atop the Aron. Judaism does not reject the physical; it channels and sanctifies it.

The crucial difference, however, is that the Mishkan was commanded; the Calf was not.

That distinction is decisive. When religious creativity detaches itself from the framework of Divine command, even sincere intentions can become spiritually destructive. The desire to make avodat Hashem accessible, tangible, or emotionally resonant is understandable—but, without commandedness, it risks becoming self-directed spirituality.

Parshat Parah responds with a very different posture. The Torah introduces the Red Heifer with the words: “Zot chukat haTorah.” It is the quintessential chok—a mitzvah that resists human logic. The Parah Adumah purifies the impure while rendering the pure impure. It cannot be neatly explained or fully rationalized. It calls for obedience even in the absence of full comprehension.

The Golden Calf represents the instinct to shape avodat Hashem in a way that feels understandable and reassuring. Parah represents the willingness to serve even when we do not fully understand—to act because we are commanded, not because we have constructed a system that satisfies our expectations.

Ki Tisa invites quiet reflection. Spiritual passion is essential. The desire for depth, connection, and meaning is not a weakness; it is one of our strengths. But that passion must remain anchored in something beyond ourselves. The difference between the Mishkan and the Golden Calf was not artistic talent or symbolism—it was submission to Divine command.

The message of Ki Tisa and Parshat Parah is that Torah does not always yield to our logic. Sometimes growth comes precisely through accepting that we do not stand at the centre. The purification of the Parah begins not with understanding, but with humility. Spiritual purity emerges when we allow the Torah to shape us, rather than insisting that we shape it.

Shabbat Shalom!

Moral Clarity in an Age of Confusion: Shabbat Zachor 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, 26 February. You can also read it in Hebrew translation, via ChatGPT, here.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once drew attention to a deeply uncomfortable truth: modern Western culture has largely lost the concept of an enemy. We instinctively assume that hostility must be the result of grievance. If someone attacks, there must be something we did to provoke it. Surely hatred must be rational.

Parshat Zachor challenges that assumption.

The Torah commands us: “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget.” Amalek attacked Bnei Yisrael in the wilderness without warning, without provocation, targeting the weak and stragglers at the rear. There was no territorial dispute, no prior history, no political grievance. It was aggression for its own sake.

Strikingly, the Torah’s response to Amalek is vividly different from its response to Egypt. The Egyptians enslaved us, oppressed us, and decreed the murder of our children. Yet the Torah instructs: “Do not despise an Egyptian.” Why? Because, as Rabbi Sacks explains, “The Egyptians feared the Israelites because they were strong. The Amalekites attacked the Israelites because they were weak.”

Pharaoh himself said, “The Israelites are becoming too numerous and strong for us.” Their hatred, though immoral and cruel, was rooted in fear and self-preservation.

Amalek was different. They attacked not because they were threatened, but because they encountered vulnerability. That distinction is not merely historical. It is moral and theological. Amalek represents the phenomenon of evil that cannot be reduced to misunderstanding or insecurity. It is the hatred that seeks vulnerability and exploits it. It is the ideology that glories in destruction.

The Rambam explains that the mitzvah to remember Amalek is about sustaining moral clarity: “to remember always his evil deeds and his ambush… to arouse enmity.” The Torah commands us not to forget the existence of such evil. Forgetfulness breeds confusion; confusion breeds danger.

We no longer know who the biological descendants of Amalek are. Since the time of Sancheriv, former national identities have long been blurred. Amalek today is not a genealogical category but a moral one—a  symbol of those forces, in every generation, that seek the destruction of the Jewish people simply because we exist.

As we read Parshat Zachor, its message remains larger than any particular chapter of history. Jewish experience has repeatedly reminded us that not all hatred can be reasoned with, and not all evil can be explained away.

Amalek may symbolize hatred without cause—but Am Yisrael symbolizes covenant without end. On Shabbat Zachor we do not only recall an ancient enemy. We reaffirm our identity as a people sustained by memory and bound to a Divine promise that has outlived every empire that sought to undo it.

Our task is not simply to survive history, but to remain faithful within it -to carry the covenant forward with faith, dignity, and moral courage.

Shabbat Shalom!

Planting the Future: Parshat Terumah 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 19 February 2026. An Ivrit translation, via AI, can be found here.

Parshat Terumah opens with an extensive list of materials required for the construction of the Mishkan: gold, silver, copper, wool, skins—and wood. The Torah instructs that “atzei shitim”—acacia wood—should be used for the beams that would form the Mishkan’s structure. One of the classic questions raised by the commentators is simple yet striking: where did this wood come from? Bnei Yisrael had just left Egypt and were traveling through the wilderness. Forests were hardly abundant. How did they obtain the materials needed to build the sanctuary?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash Tanchuma, offers a remarkable answer. Yaakov Avinu, when he descended to Egypt generations earlier, planted cedar trees there. He foresaw, through ruach hakodesh, that his descendants would one day build a Mishkan in the wilderness, and he ensured they would have the necessary materials. According to another Midrashic tradition, these trees were first planted by Avraham in Be’er Sheva and later transported by Yaakov to Egypt, carefully preserved for this very purpose.

When Yaakov arrived in Egypt, he knew his family was entering exile. Egypt offered stability and prosperity—but it was not home. Yaakov emphasized this explicitly at the end of his life, insisting his descendants take an oath not to bury him in Egypt. He wanted them to understand that their presence there was temporary. The trees he planted gave concrete expression to that message. They stood as a quiet but constant reminder that redemption would come, that Egypt was only a chapter in a much larger story.

But the trees served another purpose as well. When Bnei Yisrael later built the Mishkan, they were not using anonymous materials gathered along the way. They were using beams planted generations earlier by their forefathers. Every plank carried memory. Every beam testified that this moment had been anticipated long before. The Mishkan was not only a response to the present—it was the fulfillment of a vision planted in the past.

Yaakov Avinu did not leave his descendants only a promise of redemption. He left them its raw materials. He ensured that when the moment came, they would not only remember their destiny—they would be able to build it.

We, too, are the beneficiaries of foundations laid by earlier generations, and we are entrusted with the responsibility to continue building. Living in Jerusalem, seeing Jewish life flourish once again in our ancestral home, reminds us that we are part of a story far larger than ourselves. Like Yaakov Avinu, we plant seeds whose full impact we may never see—but which ensure that the future of our people will stand strong and endure.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Revelation to Responsibility: Parashat Mishpatim 5686

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 12 February 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here.

After the drama of Ma’amad Har Sinai—the thunder, fire, and overwhelming revelation—Parshat Mishpatim can feel like an anticlimax. We move abruptly from the Ten Commandments to a long and detailed list of civil laws: damages, property, loans, lost objects, and interpersonal disputes. It is hardly the soaring spiritual vision one might expect to follow Sinai.

“Ve’eleh hamishpatim asher tasim lifneihem” — These are the laws you shall place before them. Why does the Torah descend so quickly from revelation to regulation?

The commentators note the Torah’s deliberate use of the connecting vav—ve’eleh hamishpatim. These laws are not a new chapter but a continuation of what happened at Sinai. Revelation was never meant to remain abstract or confined to lofty ideals. It was meant to shape real life.

Rashi sharpens the question even further. Parshat Mishpatim follows immediately after the command to build the mizbe’ach , the altar. Why place detailed civil law next to the symbol of divine worship? What do courts, contracts, and damages have to do with sacrifices and holiness?

The answer emerges from a scene at the end of the parsha—one that Rashi explains actually took place before Sinai (invoking the principle that events in the Torah do not necessarily follow chronological order). As Bnei Yisrael entered into a covenant with Hashem and declared na’aseh venishma, korbanot were brought. Their blood was divided: half sprinkled on the mizbe’ach  and half on the people.

Rashi adds a striking detail: an angel was required to divide the blood precisely in half. Rav Hutner zt”l explains why this mattered. This moment defined the essence of Torah itself. The mizbe’ach  represents bein adam laMakom—our relationship with God. The people represent bein adam laChaveiro—our responsibilities to one another. The blood, the symbol of life, had to be shared equally. Neither dimension outweighs the other. Without both, the covenant is incomplete.

History shows the danger of forgetting this balance. The Mishnah describes how competition among Kohanim in the Beit HaMikdash once degenerated into violence—even murder—at the foot of the mizbe’ach  itself. Religious devotion severed from ethical responsibility can become deeply distorted.

This is why Parshat Mishpatim follows the mizbe’ach . Serving Hashem is not limited to moments of prayer or ritual. It is expressed just as powerfully in how we conduct ourselves at home, at work, and in society. The Torah insists that holiness must permeate our everyday interactions.

Ve’eleh hamishpatim are not a step down from Sinai. Rather, they are its fulfillment: the blueprint for building a holy society and bringing God’s presence into every corner of our lives.

Shabbat Shalom!

Changing the Theory, Not the Facts: Yitro 5786

This piece was first published in the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 February 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

At first glance, Parshat Yitro can feel like a collection of unrelated episodes. The arrival of Yitro, an administrative restructuring, and the thunderous revelation at Har Sinai do not obviously belong together. Yet when we look more carefully, a unifying thread emerges—one that speaks powerfully to human growth, leadership, and faith.

There is a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: “When the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.” This line captures a very human tendency: to protect our assumptions even when reality challenges them. Parshat Yitro presents the opposite model. Three times in this parsha, we encounter individuals or a nation willing to revise their “theory” in the face of compelling truth.

The first is Yitro himself. The Torah tells us that Yitro heard, and he came. Chazal describe Yitro as someone who had worshipped every form of idolatry known to the ancient world. He was not ignorant, naive, or sheltered; on the contrary, he was experienced and worldly. And yet, when he heard what had happened to Bnei Yisrael—the Exodus, the miracles, the survival against impossible odds—he  did not explain it away. He listened, he processed, and he changed. In a world where most people doubled down on their beliefs (much like our world today), Yitro was willing to say: I was wrong.

The second example is Moshe Rabbeinu. Yitro observes Moshe judging the people alone, from morning until night, and offers unsolicited advice: this is unsustainable. Moshe could easily have rejected the suggestion of the outsider. Yet instead, the Torah emphasizes that Moshe did everything Yitro suggested. For the greatest leader and prophet in history to accept guidance from an outsider is not a small detail—it is a profound statement about humility and openness. True leadership is not threatened by new perspectives; it is strengthened by them.

The third, and most dramatic, transformation is that of Bnei Yisrael at Ma’amad Har Sinai. We often forget just how revolutionary this moment was. In the ancient world, gods were visible, tangible, and embodied—statues, images, faces carved into stone and metal. To worship an invisible God, with no physical representation, was not only new; it was deeply counterintuitive. It is small wonder that throughout Tanach, the struggle against avodah zarah continues incessantly. Seen in this light, the commandment immediately following the revelation at Sinai—“Do not make with Me gods of silver or gods of gold”—is not incidental. It is a deliberate reinforcement of a radically new way of relating to God.

Parshat Yitro challenges us to ask ourselves: where might we be clinging to old patterns, assumptions or habits that no longer reflect the truth we know? Do we change the facts to fit our theories, or do we have the courage to revise the theory itself?

May we learn from these examples: to listen honestly, to remain open, and to live our lives guided not by inertia or convenience, but by what is right and true.

Shabbat Shalom!

Two Ways of Seeing: Beshalach 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 28 January 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit (translation by AI) here.

Parshat Beshalach opens with a striking tension. On the one hand, the Torah tells us that Bnei Yisrael left Egypt chamushim—armed, prepared, and resolute. On the other hand, the very same passage explains why God deliberately avoided leading them by the direct route: lest they see war and lose heart, and return to Egypt.

Which was it? Were they strong or afraid? Courageous or hesitant?

The Torah does not resolve the contradiction—because it is not a contradiction at all. It reflects a complexity of perspective. The same people who carried weapons were also capable of fear. At the sea, they cried out to God in faith—and moments later accused Moshe of leading them to their deaths. The Ramban notes that the Torah itself alternates between two descriptions: sometimes they are called Bnei Yisrael, a people bound by covenant and destiny; at other times, simply ha’am, a frightened crowd reacting to danger.

Those who saw themselves as ha’am experienced only threat and uncertainty. Those who remembered they were Bnei Yisrael—part of something larger than the moment—were able, even amid fear, to sense that history was moving.

Our own time carries a similar emotional complexity. We have lived through prolonged anxiety, grief, and exhaustion. Moments of relief have arrived alongside pain; closure has come without simplicity; gratitude has not erased loss. It is entirely human to hold contradictory emotions at once—sorrow and relief, pride and fragility, hope and weariness.

And yet, despite this complexity, something unmistakable has emerged. Again and again, we have seen faith, resilience, and courage rise to the surface. We have witnessed extraordinary bravery—soldiers leaving families and livelihoods, time after time, to defend Am Yisrael without hesitation. Alongside them, we have seen a nation mobilize and a quiet awakening of faith. Far from paralysis or despair, what has defined this period has been courage, responsibility, and emunah.

This, too, is a way of seeing: choosing not to view ourselves merely as ha’am, caught in and reacting to the immediacy of events, but as Bnei Yisrael—a people who understand that even painful chapters sit within a far longer story.

In 1991, during the Gulf War, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l addressed a British solidarity delegation visiting Israel. He reminded them of the debate in the Talmud whether Yetziat Mitzrayim would remain central in Jewish memory, or whether a future redemption would eclipse it. The prophet Yirmiyahu speaks of such a moment—a return so powerful that it would reshape Jewish consciousness.

Rabbi Sacks observed that, in Moshe’s time, God Himself feared that if Bnei Yisrael faced war, they would lose heart and turn back. Yet in his own day, as missiles fell and commercial flights were cancelled, one set of flights never stopped—those bringing Soviet Jewry back home to Israel. People knew the risks. And they came anyway.

That, he said, was an Exodus of a different kind.

In this past week, we have experienced a moment that captures the complexity of our time: relief alongside pain, gratitude intertwined with grief. Like those who left Egypt chamushim, we move forward as Bnei Yisrael—carrying our past, sustained by faith, and confident that our story is still unfolding.

Shabbat Shalom!

Remembering Miracles—and Recognizing Them Today: Bo 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 22 January 2026.

Every day, twice a day, we fulfill the command to remember Yetziat Mitzrayim—the Exodus from Egypt. The Torah anchors this memory in countless mitzvot: Tefillin, Mezuzah, Shabbat, Kiddush, Matzah and many others are all described as zecher l’Yetziat Mitzrayim. The Exodus is more than a historical event; it is meant to shape our Jewish outlook on life itself.

This week’s parsha recounts that extraordinary moment when the Jewish people left Egypt amid open and dramatic miracles. The ten plagues marked the complete suspension of the natural order. For a brief period, the impossible became real.

Why is the Torah so insistent that we remember these events constantly?

The Ramban explains that the Exodus was not only about the past; it was meant to transform the way we see the world in the present. Through the open miracles of Egypt, we are supposed to learn to recognize the hidden miracles that surround us every day. As he famously writes:

“Through the great and obvious miracles, a person will come to recognize the hidden miracles, which are the foundation of the entire Torah… A person has no portion in the Torah of Moshe Rabbeinu until they believe that all our experiences are miraculous, and that there is no such thing as mere nature or coincidence.”

The open miracles of the Exodus happened only once, but they were meant to teach an eternal lesson: the world we call “natural” is itself miraculous. We simply become accustomed to it and stop noticing.

Yet this idea applies not only to the laws of nature, but also to the laws of history.

In our generation we have been granted the privilege, and at times the challenge, of witnessing modern miracles with our own eyes. Over the past two years we have lived through a period of war and uncertainty, with real pain and loss that have touched so many families. There have been moments of fear, grief, and deep anxiety.

And yet, alongside the hardship, we have also seen remarkable resilience and extraordinary acts of Divine protection: communities that have stood strong, soldiers who have fought with incredible bravery, a nation that has refused to break, and countless stories that can only be described as miraculous. Even in the midst of darkness, there have been rays of unmistakable light.

More broadly, only one lifetime ago the Jewish people were shattered and homeless, and the idea of a Jewish state seemed unimaginable. Today Israel stands as a centre of innovation, strength, and Torah learning on a scale never seen before. What once appeared impossible has become everyday reality.

Centuries ago, Rav Yaakov Emden wrote that the continued existence of the Jewish people is the greatest miracle of all—greater even than the splitting of the sea. How much more true is that statement in our times, when we have witnessed not only survival, but renewal and rebirth.

When we mention the Exodus each day, we remind ourselves that our world is not governed by chance. Even in difficult times, we live in miraculous times.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read this piece in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here. 

The Long View: Redemption Through Setbacks

This piece was first posted on Hanassi Highlights, 15 January 2026.

If the opening of Parshat Va’era feels strangely familiar, it is not by coincidence. Once again, Hashem appears to Moshe with the words “Ani Hashem.” Once again, Moshe hesitates, describing himself as arel sefatayim, unable to speak. Once again, Aharon is appointed to stand at his side. The scene echoes almost word for word the encounter at the burning bush in last week’s parsha.

The Torah does not repeat itself without purpose. What, then, has changed?

Between the two conversations lies Moshe’s first failed attempt at redemption. Sent by Hashem to Pharaoh, Moshe demands freedom for Bnei Yisrael—and the result is devastating. Not only are the people not released; their suffering intensifies. Straw is removed, the workload increases, and despair deepens. Moshe turns back to Hashem in anguish: “Lama hare’ota la’am hazeh?” – Why have You made things worse for this people?

At that moment, it would have been natural to conclude that the mission had failed. That redemption had been attempted—and rejected. But Parshat Va’era opens by telling us otherwise. Hashem sends Moshe back. Not with a new plan, but with the same mission. The message is subtle yet profound: a setback is not the end of the story. What looks like failure may be part of a longer process, invisible in the moment but essential in retrospect. Chazal even suggest that the intensification of the labour contributed to shortening the exile. What felt like regression was, in truth, a step forward.

Sefer Shemot, like Sefer Bereishit before it, establishes a pattern. Just as the experiences of our Avot became a template for future generations, the first redemption from Egypt becomes the model for all redemptions that follow—complex, uneven, and unfolding in stages.

That insight speaks powerfully to our own moment. We live with profound emotional complexity: joy at moments of light alongside fear, grief, and uncertainty. The Torah does not ask us to deny that tension. On the contrary, it teaches us to hold it honestly. To give thanks for what has been achieved, even as we continue to pray for what is still incomplete.

This idea is reflected in the four expressions of redemption at the beginning of our parsha—the source of the four cups of wine at the Seder. The Yerushalmi understands them not as four poetic phrases, but as four distinct redemptive stages, each deserving gratitude in its own right, even as the process remains incomplete.

Parshat Vaera reminds us that redemption is not a single dramatic moment, but a journey. “Atah tireh,” Hashem tells Moshe—you will yet see. There is a larger plan, a broader horizon, and a story still unfolding. Our task is to remain steadfast, grateful, faithful and confident that, just as we were redeemed once, we will be redeemed fully again.

Shabbat Shalom!

To read this piece in Ivrit: click here.

Watching From Afar, Seeing Beyond the Moment

This devar Torah by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.

When a Jewish child is placed in a small basket among the reeds of the Nile, the Torah tells us that his sister, Miriam stood watch over him—“Va-tetatzav achoto me-rachok, le-de’ah mah ye’aseh lo”—she stood from afar, to know what would be done to him. What is the significance of the Torah's description that she watched him from afar?

The Torah is giving us far more than a description of Miriam's physical location. Rather, it is teaching us about her long-term vision. The story begins long before that riverbank scene. Rashi (Shemot 2:1) describes a moment of crushing despair. Amram, leader of his generation, divorced his wife Yocheved as a result of Pharaoh’s decree that every Jewish newborn boy be cast into the Nile. His logic was unassailable: why bring children into a world where they are condemned at birth? But his daughter Miriam challenged him. “Your decree is harsher than Pharaoh’s,” she said. Pharaoh condemned the boys; yet Amram, by separating from his wife, denied the entire Jewish future. Amram relented, remarried Yocheved, and as a result Moshe was born.

Yet, again, crisis struck. The baby had to be hidden, cast into the river. Salvation still seemed far off. But Miriam was able to look beyond, longing for historical destiny to take its course.

Even as a child, Miriam understood that redemption is rarely announced with fanfare. It is incubated in reeds, hidden in the margins of history, advanced by those who refuse to surrender to despair. She stood from afar because she was not merely observing a basket—she was tracking a promise. Would the covenant made with Avraham, that his descendants would become a nation and ultimately inherit their land, be fulfilled? She watched, waiting to see how her seemingly small act—persuading her father to remarry—would ripple outward toward redemption.

Today, Miriam’s posture is ours to emulate. We live in a world that pushes us to react instantly, to measure success in news cycles and viral moments. But the deeper story of the Jewish people has always been written by those who can stand back far enough to ask: Where will this lead? What does this moment demand of our destiny? It is not distance that breeds indifference; it is distance that enables perspective.

Like Miriam, we do not always see the end of the story immediately. But we can be confident through the historic moment in which we live that the small, faithful acts—of service, learning, courage, and hope—are far more than footnotes. They are the reeds from which the next chapter grows.

Miriam watched a basket and saw redemption. May we too merit the vision and clarity to recognize our place in the great puzzle of Jewish history.

Shabbat Shalom!

Raised by Choice, Not Just Climate: Vayechi 5786

This article was first published in Hanassi Highlights for parashat Vayechi, 1 January 2026.

The berachah we give our children each week comes from our parsha: “Yesimcha Elokim ke’Ephraim e’chiMenashe.” But why these two? What did Ephraim and Menashe embody that made them the model of Jewish blessing for all generations? And why does the Torah emphasize a reversal of order—Ephraim blessed before Menashe—just when we might have expected the family to have fully internalized the dangers of favouritism and division?

Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky zt”l offers a profound reframing. The berachah was not necessarily an affirmation that Ephraim and Menashe were more deserving, but rather a recognition that they were the ones who most needed it. They were the first generation born entirely outside the home of their ancestors, raised at the heart of Egyptian civilization rather than in the tent of Yaakov Avinu. Their lives force us to ask a question that would echo throughout Jewish history: What happens when Jewish identity is no longer inherited by atmosphere, but must be forged by effort?

Rav Kamenetzky saw in them the prototype of the Jew in exile—not the Jew who fails, but the Jew who succeeds, and in doing so, risks forgetting that exile is a passageway, not a destination. Menashe, whose name reflects forgetting, was still anchored in Yosef’s yearning for home, a child named for loss but raised in memory. Ephraim, however, whose name celebrates flourishing in galut, carried the subtler danger: that cultural success can create the illusion of cultural belonging. Prosperity can blur perspective more than persecution.

Even their names reflect the challenge. Rav Kamenetzky notes that the letter פ (pey) appears repeatedly in Egyptianized names of the era—Pharaoh, Potiphar, Tzafnat Pe’aneach, Puah. Ephraim’s name, he suggests, bore the phonetic fingerprint of Egypt. This was not a critique, but a diagnosis: Ephraim’s identity was more exposed, more blended, more tested—and therefore demanded reinforcement. Yaakov crossed his hands and reversed the order not to select a favourite, but to fortify the child carrying the greater cultural gravity.

Yaakov’s message was not nostalgic, but strategic. Remember who you are before you attempt to change the world. Flourish, but don’t forget the soil you grew from. Thrive outward, but remain tethered inward.

Yosef completes this mission. As his life draws to a close, he binds his descendants to history through oath, instructing them to carry his bones out of Egypt when redemption finally comes. The Jewish people would ultimately journey toward geulah accompanied by two Aronot: the Aron HaBrit, carrying Torah, and the Aron of Yosef, carrying mesorah—purpose moving ahead, identity reaching back.

Ephraim and Menashe teach us that exile begins not when Jews suffer, but when Jews forget. And redemption begins when we ensure we will remember—remember who we are, where we came from, and to where we are ultimately returning.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Revelation to Responsibility: Vayigash 5786

This piece was originally published in Hanassi Highlights on 25 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew (translated by ChatGPT) here.

From Revelation to Responsibility

This week we mark Asara b’Tevet—the fast commemorating the beginning of the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. It is the first step in a slow, tightening process that ends in the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. A siege begins quietly, through mounting pressure. But spiritual collapse, the Torah shows us, often begins more quietly still—not with armies, but with fractures in our relationships.

Parshat Vayigash is a study in the opposite movement—not constriction, but revelation; not estrangement, but approach. Yehuda steps forward, speaks directly to power, and takes responsibility for his youngest brother. Yosef steps out from concealment and answers his brothers not with accusation, but with identity restored: “I am Yosef—is my father still alive?” (Bereishit 45:3).

Among the most powerful scenes leading into this moment occurs in last week’s parsha, when Yosef meets Binyamin. The Torah describes Yosef hurrying aside to cry, overwhelmed by compassion (Bereishit 43:30). Rashi, quoting Chazal, explains that these brothers’ tears were not only personal, but prophetic:

·       Yosef cried for the two Batei M
ikdash that would one day stand in Binyamin’s portion and be destroyed.

·       Binyamin cried for Mishkan Shiloh, destined for Yosef’s portion, which would also be destroyed.

The obvious question is why Chazal saw the need to distance Yosef and Binyamin’s tears from this direct encounter into visions of the future? Why not simply say that their tears were due to the long separation they had endured?

Rav Chaim Drukman zt”l explains that Chazal’s intent was not to displace the simple meaning—of course brothers weep when decades of absence collapse into a single embrace. Rather, they were illuminating a deeper question: What created a world in which brothers could be torn apart, and sacred homes could be torn down? What led to the tears? What led to the churban?

The answer goes back to the root of the fracture – when jealousy and hatred between the brothers first begins to emerge:

“lo yachlu dabro le-shalom—they could not speak to him in peace.” (Bereishit 37:4)

The tragedy began not with an invasion, but with a failure of speech, recognition, and responsibility. The sale of Yosef was not merely a family crisis—it was the prototype of a Jewish story that would tragically repeat itself throughout the ages.

The correction occurs in our parsha. Two decades after proposing the sale, Yehuda returns and this time does something entirely different. He becomes a model of arvut—personal responsibility for the welfare of his brother.

Asara b’Tevet reminds us how a siege begins. Vayigash reminds us how a nation heals—through the courage to speak, the willingness to step forward, and the refusal to let a brother face darkness alone.

In days of mounting pressure, we must choose which language to speak: the silence of fracture, or the speech of peace; the logic of distance, or the loyalty of responsibility.

May this week strengthen in us a renewed commitment to clarity, unity, and mutual responsibility, so that the chain of churban that once began in silence will, in our days, end in rebuilding.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Strength of Being Seen: Miketz 5786

This devar Torah was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 18 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew (thanks to ChatGPT) by clicking here.

The interaction between Yosef and Pharaoh is one of the more surprising encounters in Sefer Bereishit. Yosef is summoned from prison after two long years of silence and disappointment and brought before the most powerful ruler of his time. He faces what might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to secure his future. How might we expect him to act?

One might imagine that Yosef would try to blend in. At the very least, to soften the edges of his difference. To speak in a way that sounds familiar, acceptable and safe. After all, we know that Esther, generations later, conceals her Jewish identity in the Persian palace. Survival, it would seem, sometimes requires discretion.

Yet Yosef does nothing of the sort.

From his very first response to Pharaoh, Yosef marks himself as different. When asked if he can interpret dreams, he replies without hesitation: “Bil’adai—it is not me; God will answer Pharaoh’s welfare.” He does not credit his own brilliance, nor does he translate his faith into neutral terms. Yosef speaks openly, in a distinctly Jewish register, naming God without apology or calculation.

What is striking is how Pharaoh responds. Rather than recoiling from this difference, he is drawn to it. Yosef’s clarity, integrity, and rootedness inspire confidence. He is elevated not in spite of his identity, but alongside it. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once captured this dynamic succinctly: “Non-Jews respect Jews who respect Judaism.” Yosef does not seek legitimacy by erasing who he is; he earns it by standing firmly within it.

This theme resonates powerfully as we approach Chanukah. The mitzvah of lighting the Chanukiah is centered in the Jewish home, yet placed where its light can be seen. Pirsumei nisa emerges not from the public square, but from a place of rooted identity. Chanukah affirms a Judaism that is visible because it is lived, not because it is proclaimed.

The symbol of Chanukah is oil, and Chazal famously compare Am Yisrael to the olive. Oil does not mix. No matter how vigorously it is shaken, it always rises to the top and separates again. For generations, Jews believed that perhaps this time we could fully blend in, finally fit in, finally disappear into the surrounding culture. History has taught us, repeatedly, that this was an illusion.

Even in our own days, recent tragic events have reminded us how fragile acceptance can be, and how quickly ancient hatreds resurface. The response cannot be confined to fear and retreat. It must be quiet strength and dignified confidence.

Yosef embodies a Jewish identity that is neither concealed nor apologetic. His faith is visible, his values intact, his presence grounded and confident. Like olives, we may be pressed, and at times deeply shaken—yet we endure. And across Jewish history, often in the most painful of moments, it has been precisely this quiet fidelity—rooted in who we are and in our trust in Hashem—that has sustained us.

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Sameach!

Refusing to Give Up: Vayeshev 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg was originally published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.

Parashat Vayeshev opens with a note of hope: Yaakov finally believed he had reached a point of calm after a lifetime of struggle. After wrestling with Esav, surviving Lavan, and enduring the trauma of Dinah, surely now he had earned a measure of peace.

But Chazal tell us otherwise: “Bikesh Yaakov leishev b’shalvah—kafatz alav rogzó shel Yosef.” Just when Yaakov longed for tranquillity, the anguish of Yosef’s disappearance fell upon him. Shattered by his sons’ report and the blood-stained coat they presented, Yaakov enters a prolonged and unrelenting mourning. His children rise to comfort him, yet the Torah records: “Vayema’en lehitnachem”—he refused to be comforted.

Why? Other great figures experience devastating loss yet eventually find strength to move forward. The Torah tells us explicitly how Avraham arose after grieving for Sarah. What made Yaakov’s grief different?

The Midrash, cited by Rashi, teaches that consolation is granted only when death is final. Since Yosef was still alive, Yaakov felt an inexplicable inability to accept comfort. But the Netivot Shalom adds a striking layer: Yaakov sensed that Yosef was alive—but what tormented him was not Yosef’s physical state. It was the fear that Yosef, alone in a foreign land, surrounded by moral darkness and spiritual danger, might lose himself. Would the Yosef who grew up in Yaakov’s home still exist? And so “vayema’en”—he refused to give up on his son. He prayed, he hoped, he believed.

That same rare word appears a second time in our parasha. When Yosef faces relentless temptation in Egypt, he too refuses (“vayema’en”). Rav Soloveitchik notes that this word is marked in the Torah with a shalshelet, a musical note shaped like a chain. Yosef remembered he was part of a chain—of his father, his people, his destiny. The Gemara tells us that in that moment he saw his father’s image. Remembering that Yaakov had never given up on him gave him the strength not to give up on himself.

This is the story of Jewish history. Through darkness, dispersion, persecution, and the pressures of modernity, we have refused – refused to surrender our identity, our mission and our faith. Because our ancestors believed in us, and because HaKadosh Baruch Hu believes in us still.

The candles that we light on Chanukah represent this stubborn refusal. The pirsum hanes of these special days is the fact that, no matter how strong the winds outside, those tiny flames will always endure.

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Same’ach, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Fear, Faith, and the Courage to Walk Forward: Vayishlach 5786

 This item was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, 4 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew via AI translation here.

As Yaakov Avinu prepares to meet his brother after 20 long years, he is engulfed by uncertainty. He had fled when Esav’s anger was still burning, and now he must face him again—without knowing how Esav will respond, or whether the old desire for revenge still lingers. Yaakov faces the unknown.

The Torah describes his emotional state with raw honesty: “וַיִּירָא יַעֲקֹב מְאֹד וַיֵּצֶר לוֹ – Yaakov was very afraid and distressed.” Fear, anxiety, and uncertainty are not abstract concepts here; they are lived, felt experiences. And they resonate deeply with us today

But there is a major question. If anyone should not have been afraid, surely it was Yaakov. Hashem had already promised him, more than once, that He would guard him, return him safely, and never abandon him. So why the fear? Why the distress?

Chazal and the Rishonim offer several explanations. Rashi (based on Gemara Berachot) suggests “שמא יגרום החטא” – Yaakov was concerned that perhaps he had sinned and was no longer worthy of the promise. The Ibn Ezra adds that perhaps he feared not for himself but for his family; Hashem had guaranteed his safety, but not theirs.

But the Abarbanel boldly rejects all of this. His reading is remarkably simple and profoundly human. Yaakov was afraid because going into a potential war is frightening. Divine promises do not erase human emotion. Emunah does not override the heart.

According to the Abarbanel, Yaakov’s fear is not a sign of weak faith. It is the opposite:
His faith is what allowed him to act despite his fear. He still prays. He still strategises. He still prepares. Faith does not remove uncertainty—it gives us the courage to navigate uncertainty.

This is a transformative idea, especially in the world we inhabit today. Over the past years we have been repeatedly reminded that life is far less predictable than we once imagined. We have lived with sirens and shifting realities. The sense of certainty we once took for granted feels shattered.

Modern psychology tells us that one of the greatest drivers of anxiety is not danger, but the intolerance of uncertainty. Our instinct is to try to control everything, predict everything, know everything.

But Parashat Vayishlach offers a different path. We are allowed to feel fear. We are allowed to feel unsettled. That is part of being human. But we do not let fear decide our next step. Like Yaakov, we move forward - with caution, with preparation, and with faith that we do not walk alone.

As we face an unpredictable world, may we draw strength from Yaakov  Avinu’s example and find the courage not necessarily to be unafraid—but to keep walking even when we are.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Finding Purpose in the Long Journey: Vayetzei 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 27 November 2025. You can also read it in Ivrit here.

There is a puzzling phrase at the heart of this week’s parsha. After Yaakov agrees to work seven years in order to marry Rachel, the Torah tells us that these years were “in his eyes like a few days”—keyamim achadim. Anyone who has waited for something deeply desired knows that time does not pass quickly. It drags. The Akeidat Yitzchak sharpens the point: for someone so eager to marry the love of his life, the wait should have felt like a thousand years. What, then, is the Torah trying to teach us?

The Sforno offers a simple but powerful explanation. The phrase keyamim achadim does not mean the years passed quickly; rather, they felt light—an insignificant price compared to what Yaakov was receiving. He would gladly have worked even longer because Rachel was worth far more than seven years of labour. The Torah is describing not the speed of time but the magnitude of Yaakov’s love.

But perhaps there is something deeper happening. The stories of Yaakov’s early years—from his flight to Charan to his years of labour—are strikingly unspiritual. We read about wages, contracts, sheep, daughters, and family disputes. It feels more like a biography than a parsha. Why does the Torah spend so much time on what appears to be the mundane details of Yaakov’s personal life?

The answer is that Yaakov’s life is never just personal. Rather, it is about the future of Am Yisrael. His work, his marriage, his family—all of this forms the foundation upon which the Jewish people will be built. In that context, seven years truly are like a few days. When a person understands that his actions are part of a mission stretching across generations, the scale shifts. What might otherwise feel like a burden becomes meaningful. What might feel endless becomes purposeful.

This idea also sheds light on the only other place where the phrase yamim achadim appears. When Rivka tells Yaakov to flee from Esav’s wrath, she urges him to remain in Charan for just “a few days”, yet he ends up staying for over two decades. Rivka was not promising a short exile; she was giving Yaakov a framework. Measured against the long arc of Jewish history, even decades can be understood as a short chapter in a much larger story.

In our world of instant results and constant immediacy, we often lose that broader perspective. We judge our lives by the urgency of the moment rather than the purpose of the journey. Yaakov teaches us to look up, to see ourselves as part of something far bigger than today’s pressures or frustrations.

If we remember that our daily efforts—our Torah, our mitzvot, our commitment to community—are part of the ongoing story of Am Yisrael, then we too can experience moments of keyamim achadim. Not because life is easy, but because it is meaningful.

 Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

The Quiet Strength of Continuity: Toledot 5786

This piece was first published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.  To read it in Ivrit, courtesy of AI, click here.

n March 1921 Winston Churchill, the British Colonial Secretary of the time, visited the young city of Tel Aviv. Eager to present the best possible impression, Meir Dizengoff, the city’s mayor, arranged for palm trees to be planted along the still-bare Rothschild Boulevard. As the procession moved down the street, the crowd began to climb the newly planted trees to get a better view. The trees promptly collapsed. Churchill turned to Dizengoff and remarked dryly: “Roots, Mr. Dizengoff—without roots, it won’t work.”

That observation serves as an unexpected introduction to Parashat Toledot, the only parasha focused squarely on Yitzchak Avinu. If Avraham’s life is marked by drama, movement, and sweeping transformation, Yitzchak’s seems almost muted by comparison. He stays in the Land and avoids conflict. The Torah devotes its longest narrative about him to the redigging of wells his father had dug—even preserving their original names.

Yet it is precisely here that we encounter the depth of Yitzchak’s greatness.

Beginning a revolution is bold; ensuring that it endures is far more demanding. Avraham’s role was to introduce an entirely new spiritual vision to the world. Yitzchak’s was to ensure that vision took root—that it would not disappear once the initial excitement faded.

But genuine continuity is never mere imitation. Yitzchak could not simply repeat Avraham’s actions; his world was different, his generation different, and the spiritual challenges he faced required a distinct response. Redigging the wells was an act of renewal, not nostalgia: the same water, the same values,but drawn in a way that his generation could understand.

Rav Soloveitchik notes this idea in his explanation of the Midrash that Avraham and Yitzchak looked identical. Rashi explains that this was to silence the “leitzanei hador” —the scoffers of the generation—who questioned whether Avraham had truly fathered Yitzchak. Rav Soloveitchik explains that the critics of the time were not merely questioning biological lineage. They were doubting whether Avraham’s achievements could truly be transmitted. Could a new generation genuinely carry forward the ideals of the previous one? Would Avraham’s covenant endure, or would it fade with him?

The Torah’s emphatic answer, “Avraham holid et Yitzchak”, affirms that the legacy did, in fact, take root. The values endured. The wells flowed again.

This remains one of the central tasks of Jewish life. Each generation receives a precious inheritance, yet each must dig again. Circumstances shift, language shifts, cultural assumptions shift—but the underlying waters remain unchanged. The work of preserving the mesorah is not passive; it calls for sensitivity, wisdom, and creativity.

Yitzchak reminds us that continuity is courageous. It is the quiet heroism of ensuring that something ancient remains vibrant and life-giving even as the world changes around it. May we continue to draw from those wells with strength and clarity.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg