Rabbi Fischel Schachter

Behind the Darkness

You know how it goes. Someone asks you, “Are you flying to Israel tonight?” “Yes, you say.” Then comes the next question. “Can you take something for me?” You think for a minute, considering how much room you have. Your five suitcases are packed to the brim in every conceivable spot. “What is it that you’d like me to take?” you ask politely.

“Just a small refrigerator.” comes the quiet answer. So I’ve since learned to do the following.

The phone rings. “Can you take something to Israel?” “Bring it over,” I say. Then they ask if I will be home. “I’m sorry, but I won’t. But don’t worry; just put it through the mailbox.” As soon as I say that, I cut to the chase. “It won’t fit through the mailbox,” they say.

That usually helps me indicate, as delicately as possible, that a small refrigerator is just a bit too big.

One time, someone asked if I’d be willing to take $5,000 for a kallah to help pay for a wedding. “It’s under the legal limit,” they said. I hesitated. “I’m not good with money,” I admitted. “If something happens…” My wife gave me a look. “Come on; just take it.” So I agreed. I put the money in the outer pocket of my carry-on suitcase and zipped it shut.

Back then, we didn’t have the full-body scanners at airport security. There were just metal detectors, and I’m the guy who always beeps. I do everything I need to do—empty my pockets, take off my shoes, remove my belt… beep. Finally, I joke to the TSA agent, “You want me to take off my nose?” So this one time, he asked, “Do you have money in your pockets?” I said yes. “Sometimes that sets it off.” So I placed the cash into the suitcase’s outer pocket and continued on my way.

When I reached the gate and opened the pocket, the money was gone. Gone. Suddenly, people swarmed around me. “Did you lose money? How much?” I didn’t even know how they knew. “Go back to security,” someone said. “They have cameras.”

So I ran back. Now, I don’t mind telling stories, but I don’t enjoy being in them.

I told the TSA what happened. “I lost a bundle of money,” I said. One agent replied sarcastically, “So did I.” I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Can you check the footage?” I asked. “There’s protocol,” they said. “First, bring the suitcase. A lot of people misplace money inside and think it’s gone.” So I ran back to the gate, grabbed my suitcase, and returned.

We had to wait for a special TSA agent to arrive and inspect the bag. When he finally came, he began removing everything and lining it up neatly. To add to the comedy, someone else had given me a full set of dishes to bring to this same kallah. Picture it: middle of the airport, TSA agent pulling out plates, bowls, cups, and people walking by, whispering, “Wow, this guy’s making a simcha at the gate.”

He reached the outer pocket and declared, “There’s nothing here.” “I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Can you check the cameras now?” I asked. “Not yet. Do you have any other suitcases?” Now, if I had even a drop of common sense, I would have said no. But I admitted we did. I was traveling with my wife, my children, and a mountain of luggage. So now, we had to go through every bag before they’d check the footage.

That’s when I realized: this was over. I was going to miss the flight. Between my ticket, my wife’s, and all the kids—it would cost far more than $5,000. I turned to my wife. “Let’s just go.”

She refused. “I’m not going,” she said. The airport agent asked, “Sir, are you boarding or not?” I turned back to her. “What’s the problem?” She looked me straight in the eyes. “You’re going to ruin this trip. You’ll spend the whole time saying, ‘We lost the money. I lost the money.’ You won’t let us eat out or enjoy anything. We’ll get some rugelach at the hotel and that’s it. You’ll be miserable.”

She was right. So I promised her, “I will not mention the money once this entire trip.” And I kept my word.

I borrowed money, gave it to the kallah. Even though, halachically, as a shomer chinam I might not have been responsible, I felt I had been negligent. So I took responsibility. I swiped the credit card. And once we were swiping anyway, we enjoyed.

We went to Meron for two days instead of one. We invited all of my son’s friends from yeshiva over for a big dinner. We made the most of it.

On the very last day, as we were about to leave for the airport, my wife said, “Look at the table.” “The taxi’s waiting,” I said. “Just look.” I turned and saw it—$5,000 in cash.

“What? Where did this come from?”

“It was in the suitcase all along,” she said. Turns out, the suitcase was so full that when I put the money in, it slipped under a bulge in the lining, out of reach. It had been there the whole time. And as the bag lay flat under the hotel bed, the money slowly surfaced again.

Let me tell you something: there’s nothing like finding what you thought you had lost.

But that’s not the real story.

The real story is this. Imagine I had spent the entire trip sulking, complaining, saying, “We lost the money. I can’t enjoy anything.” And then, on the very last day, I found it. Too late. The trip would have been over.

That’s life.

We go through our days angry, worried, regretful. We complain about what’s missing, what’s broken, what’s unfair. But after 120 years, we’ll see… it was all there. The joy, the light, the blessings. We just didn’t see it in the moment.

The Baal Shem Tov gives a mashal. You go through one dark time in life, then another, and it keeps on getting darker and darker. But you keep going, and you tell yourself, “Life must go on.” And then, all of a sudden, there’s light. You realize it was all part of something bigger. And Hashem says, “You did it. You passed the test.”

Recently, I heard a piece on the news about presidential pardons. Many were issued with an “auto-pen,” a machine that signs documents on the president’s behalf. But one reporter asked, “Was there any pardon that that President signed with his own hand?” The answer was, “Yes, the one for his son.”

And I thought: when a Jew does teshuvah, it goes up to Shamayim, and Hashem doesn’t use an auto-pen. He signs it Himself.

Yes, life can be dark, but as the Chozeh of Lublin said, “Behind every darkness is light.” Behind the three weeks of mourning are the three Yamim Tovim. Behind the twenty-one days of the Bein HaMetzarim are the twenty-one days from Rosh Hashanah to Hoshanah Rabbah.

Our job? Don’t lose the trip.

Don’t spend your life lamenting what’s missing, only to discover too late that it was all there. There is joy here and now. There is growth and purpose today, even in the confusion and pain. The presence of Hashem is with you. You may be on vacation, but Hashem never is.

And so, may the Ribbono Shel Olam give us continued strength to walk through darkness with hope and with open hearts.

And for now and for the rest of your life, keep smiling.

Rabbi Ari Bensoussan

Appreciate the Tomatoes

Here we are again. Another year, another Tisha B’av. It’s remarkable how each year, without fail, we find ourselves reliving the same themes, the same messages, the same longing. But this time, I’d like to take a slightly different approach. Maybe even an upbeat one, if you’ll allow it.

I was sitting at a Shabbat meal not long ago with a dear friend of mine, a fellow rabbi and old chavrusa. We don’t get to see each other often these days. So when we do sit down, it’s a treat. “I have to tell you something hilarious,” he said.

He had received a video clip. A husband and wife are at a fruit stand, selecting tomatoes. The wife is carefully picking them out and placing them into a bag. What she doesn’t notice, however, is that her husband, ever the quiet comedian, is standing beside her. Each time she places a tomato in the bag, he subtly reaches in, pulls it out, and then, when she goes to grab the next tomato, he proudly holds up the one she had just chosen, pretending he found it himself.

She looks at him, scrutinizes the tomato, and promptly rejects it. “No, not that one,” she says, and returns it to the pile.

Now, I’m sorry, but that’s brilliant.

There’s something so deep hidden in this silly little moment. She liked that tomato a moment ago. It met all her criteria. But the second he was the one to offer it, it was automatically disqualified. Why? Because it came from him.

Isn’t that the core of sinat chinam (baseless hatred)? The inability to accept something just because of who it comes from. It doesn’t matter what the idea is, how sound the advice, how beautiful the gesture. If you’re the one doing it, then it must be wrong.

Sometimes we behave like this in our own lives. Our child suggests an idea, but we’ve already said no in our minds before the words have even left their mouth. A co-worker offers a creative solution, and we dismiss it reflexively not based on merit, but based on who said it. A Sefardi shares a minhag with an Ashkenazi, and he tunes out. An Ashkenazi tries explaining something to a Chassid, and he shrugs. A Chabadnik tells a Belzer a vort, and the Belzer smiles politely but thinks, “Cute… but not for us.”

Why? Because the source is different. Because if I take your idea seriously, I might have to question mine. And honestly, I’m not in the mood to examine my assumptions. It’s easier to scoff than to stretch.

But the Torah tells us otherwise: “B’tzedek tishpot amitecha—Judge your fellow with righteousness.” Give them a fair shot, let them finish the sentence, hear the idea. Think about it. Not everything you didn’t come up with is automatically invalid.

Step one of loving another person is simply allowing them to speak. Step two is listening. And step three? Actually considering what they say, and not judging it based on the source, but on its substance.

And even when someone does do something wrong, are we really so quick to judge? Because if we’re being honest, we’ve all done wrong too. And yet, when we make mistakes, we offer ourselves excuses: “I was tired,” “I was under pressure,” “I didn’t mean it that way.” We speak lashon hara and later justify it as venting. We miss mincha and tell ourselves there was no parking. We click something we shouldn’t have, and tell Hashem it’s the culture, the stress, our weakness.

But when it’s someone else? We pull out the black brush and paint in bold strokes: “How could they?” “Unbelievable.” “Disgusting.” For ourselves, we write legal defenses. For others, we slam the gavel.

So here’s my plea: start appreciating the tomatoes other people pick.

Even if they’re the same tomatoes you picked a minute ago. Even if you don’t like the packaging, or the presentation, or the person holding the bag.

Give others the benefit of the doubt. Give them the gift of time and space to express themselves. And when you see someone stumble, try on their shoes before you declare their path crooked. If you’d excuse yourself in that situation, then perhaps they deserve that same compassion too.

Tisha B’av isn’t just about mourning what was lost. It’s about remembering what we’re still losing each time we choose pride over empathy, prejudice over curiosity, rejection over respect.

Let’s hope we don’t have to fast this year. But if we do, may it be an easy one. But more importantly, may we learn to love a little more freely, listen a little more deeply, and judge a little more righteously.

And if someone offers you a tomato? Take it. Even if it’s not yours. Even if it’s his or hers.

Rabbi Bentzion Shafier

That’s Strange

As we prepare for Tisha B’av, our focus inevitably turns toward one central question: how can we finally uproot Sinas Chinam from within our midst? We talk about building the Beis Hamikdash, about unity, about love. But practically, what can we do to change? How can we grow?

Let me share with you an observation that might help reframe the entire issue. The term Sinat Chinam is, in truth, a contradiction. Have you ever met an intelligent, rational adult who hates another person for no reason? Every time someone shares a story of conflict or pain, it comes with reasons. “He said this,” “She did that,” “You don’t understand what happened.”

So what did Chazal mean by Sinas Chinam?

The answer is that yes, you have reasons. But Chazal are telling us: your reasons are baseless. They feel valid and they seem justified, but perhaps they aren’t.

To understand this more deeply, I’d like to share a psychological study that, I believe, holds the key to transforming not only our Tisha B’av but our relationships.

In 1990, Elizabeth Newton, a Stanford University student, ran a clever experiment. She divided participants into two groups: “tappers” and “listeners.” Tappers were asked to tap the rhythm of a well-known song—say, “Happy Birthday” or “The Star-Spangled Banner”—on a table. The listener’s job was to guess the song.

The results? Only 2% of listeners guessed correctly. But here's the fascinating part: the tappers predicted that their listeners would guess right 50% of the time. That’s an astonishing discrepancy.

Why such a gap between perception and reality?

Because as the tapper taps, they can’t help but hear the melody in their own head. To them, the rhythm is crystal clear. “How can you not hear it?” they think. “It’s obvious!” You can even see video footage of frustrated tappers throwing up their hands in disbelief. “How do you not get it?”

This, Newton explained, is called mind-blindness: the inability to recognize that someone else doesn’t know what you know, doesn’t hear what you hear, doesn’t feel what you feel. It’s the mistaken belief that your inner experience is universal. That your reality is the reality.

And if you look closely, you’ll find that at the core of almost every conflict in your life, there was some form of mind-blindness.

Think about it. “I assumed you knew how sensitive I was about that.” “I thought you understood what I meant.” “Everyone knows this bothers me.” “How could she not realize how hurtful that was?” In our closest relationships—between siblings, spouses, friends, co-workers—so much pain arises not from intentional cruelty, but from unspoken assumptions.

Take a wife who sends her husband an emotional text during the day, longing for support. He’s swamped with work and forgets to respond. She reads silence as indifference. He reads silence as survival. Or a husband hears his wife tell something private to her sister, and feels betrayed. She sees it as natural: “I tell my sister everything.”

Both feel wronged. Both believe the other should have known. And both are operating out of the blindness that their emotional experience is universal.

So what’s the solution?

It’s deceptively simple. It begins with two words: That’s strange.

The next time someone says or does something that stings—pause. Take a breath, and say to yourself, “That’s strange.” Why would someone usually kind act so harshly? Why would someone normally thoughtful behave so carelessly?

That’s strange.

When you respond that way, something powerful happens. Instead of reacting with judgment, you lean in with curiosity. You begin to wonder: “What am I missing? What might they be experiencing that I don’t see?” And suddenly, the world opens up. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t understand. Maybe it wasn’t meant the way I received it.

With those two words—that’s strange—you climb out of your own mind and begin exploring someone else’s. And when you do that, the hurt dissolves and the anger fades. There’s no longer a villain in the story, but just a human being who sees things differently than you.

If you truly want to change your Tisha B’av this year, try this exercise. Think of any person you’ve had a falling out with—a sibling, a friend, a spouse, a neighbor. Go back to that moment. Examine the story. And I guarantee you: somewhere in that story, someone assumed something. “She thought I knew.” “I thought she understood.” “He assumed I didn’t care.” Behind the friction, there was mind-blindness.

And here’s the great irony. Sinas Chinam doesn’t mean hatred with no reason. It means hatred built on reasons that don’t hold up. Stories we tell ourselves that aren’t rooted in reality. Assumptions we never challenged. Narratives we spun out of pain or ego or fear, and then believed to the point of war.

But if we could just pause and ask, “What else might be going on here?” so many arguments would dissolve before they begin. So many rifts would never turn into rivalries.

This, I believe, is the true path to healing Sinas Chinam. Not dramatic acts of unity. Not grand gestures of reconciliation. But a quiet, personal willingness to say: Maybe I don’t know the whole story. Maybe my experience isn’t the only one. Maybe I was mind-blind.

And if we can do that, perhaps this Tisha B’av won’t require mourning. And if we do fast, may it be our final one in exile.

Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling

The Music of Destruction

Let’s begin with a chapter in Tehillim—Psalm 79. It’s a tefillah for Klal Yisrael to be restored to its land, and for Hashem’s glory to once again be recognized in a world that doubts His presence. It’s a frightening chapter. But it opens with a phrase that has long intrigued me.

It begins with the words, “Mizmor l’Asaf—A song of Asaf.” That alone should catch our attention. Asaf was a Levi, and here he composes a mizmor. But what’s shocking is what follows: “Elokim, ba’u goyim be’nachalasecha..” The nations have invaded Your inheritance, they’ve defiled Your sanctuary, and they’ve turned Yerushalayim into heaps of rubble. The corpses of Your servants, Your chassidim, were left for the birds and beasts. Blood was poured like water around Yerushalayim with no one left to bury the dead.

Pasuk after Pasuk describes horror, desecration, despair, disgrace. So why, the Midrash in Eicha Rabbah (4:14) asks, is this called a mizmor, a song? Why not a kinah, a lament? How could there be any joy in the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash?

The Midrash answers with a mashal.

There was once a king who loved his son dearly and built him a magnificent chuppah, complete with tapestries, rods, and artistic flourishes. But the son rebelled and abandoned his father’s path and joined bad influences. The king, in his fury, rushed in and tore the chuppah to pieces. He ripped it down, smashed the poles, and destroyed every piece.

The king’s son had a tutor who was a wise, loving mentor. When he saw the king destroy the chuppah, he reached for his flute and began to play music. People were shocked. “Do you not see the king’s rage? This is a time for weeping, not singing!” But the tutor replied, “That’s precisely why I sing. Because look where the king poured his anger—not on his son, but on the chuppah. The king spared the child.”

That, says the Midrash, is mizmor l’Asaf. Klal Yisrael sinned, and Hashem had every reason to destroy us. But instead, He took His wrath out on the stones and wood of the Beis Hamikdash. And so Asaf sang not because of what was lost, but because of what was saved.

Rav Shimshon Pincus zt”l extends this idea. “Why take out anger on the Beit Hamikdash?” he asks. If Hashem simply wanted to “release” His anger somewhere other than Klal Yisrael, couldn’t He have chosen something else? Why destroy the holiest place on earth?

The answer, Rav Pincus says, lies in a terrifying pasuk in Yirmiyahu (7:9–11). Hashem says: “Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, and swear falsely… and then come and stand before Me in this house, upon which My name is proclaimed, and say, ‘We’re saved!’ so you can continue doing all these abominations?”

In other words, Bnei Yisrael were abusing the Beis Hamikdash. They sinned freely, and then ran to the Mikdash with a korban and a few words of vidui, assuming they were “clean” again. Teshuva became a loophole, and the Beis HaMikdash wasn’t inspiring transformation; it was enabling spiritual corruption.

So Hashem destroyed it not out of vengeance, but out of love.

If the Beis Hamikdash had become a place that prevented true teshuva, then its continued existence endangered our neshamos. And Hashem, our Father, would rather take away the building than lose His children. He destroyed the structure to preserve the relationship.

This, in turn, reframes Tisha B’av. Yes, we mourn destruction. But what we truly mourn is distance. We are orphans, lost in a world without our Father’s house. And just like a child misbehaving in school whose issues are traced back to a broken home—“He doesn’t have a father at home”—so too, all the tragedies of exile trace back to one central cause: we don’t have our Father.

Every war, every illness, every struggle is a symptom. The root cause is galus (exile). And galus means the absence of clarity, of closeness to Hashem. We’re flailing not because we are bad, but because we are far.

So how do we fix it?

The answer is not complicated. But it’s not easy either.

We need to take life seriously. We need to stop treating sin lightly. We need to stop assuming we can always “deal with it later.” Hashem didn’t want our korbanos; He wanted our hearts. When we abused the system, He took the Beis Hamikdash away. And now, He waits for something real.

But the beauty is, He’s still waiting with open arms.

All of Tanach, all of Chazal, are filled with one cry from Hashem: “Shuvu eilai—Return to Me.” That’s all He wants. Not perfection. Not brilliance. Just honesty. Just a step forward.

Yes, on Tisha B’av we must sit on the floor and we must cry. Because if we don’t cry, it means we don’t care. But don’t say, “I can’t relate.” You can. Close your eyes. Imagine a world with perfect clarity, connection, and purpose. Imagine feeling Hashem’s presence in your life like you feel the warmth of the sun.

That’s what we’re missing.

And so we cry, but we don’t despair. Because the very destruction is proof of His love. And if every Jew, this Tisha B’av, just takes one small step—one kabbalah, one cheshbon hanefesh, one sincere tefillah—then thousands and thousands of neshamos will be returning home.

And once that happens? Everything can change in a moment. Moshiach can come today.

Because Hashem is waiting. He destroyed the Beis Hamikdash so we would stop faking it and start feeling it. He wants us back. And if we all return, even a little, He will bring us home.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

For Your Name

As we approach Tisha B’av, our hearts turn to the many layers of sorrow etched into this day: the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, the long and bitter exile, the expulsions, the pogroms, the hatred that never ceases. But as overwhelming as Jewish suffering has been throughout the generations, Chazal have taught us that there is a level of mourning even deeper, even more refined: the pain of the Shechinah.

Let us begin by returning to the events that took place in the Midbar, when the Meraglim returned from Eretz Yisrael with a slanderous report. In response, Hashem said, “I will destroy them,” and once again, Moshe Rabbeinu stood in the breach and pleaded on behalf of the people.

But this time, Moshe Rabbeinu did something extraordinary.

He invoked nine of the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy, and then, he presented an argument not based on compassion, not based on justice, and not based on the people’s worthiness. He rather said: “If You wipe them out, the nations will say: ‘Hashem lacked the ability to bring this people to the land He promised, so He killed them in the wilderness.’”

And Hashem replied: “Salachti kidvarecha—I have forgiven, according to your words.”

Rashi comments: Hashem forgave—not because of mercy, not because of the people—but because of the argument Moshe made. Moshe appealed to one thing alone: the honor of Hashem. He said, in effect, “Ribono Shel Olam, it’s not about us. It’s about You.”

From this moment in Sefer Bamidbar we learn something profound. When our backs are against the wall, when our merits are insufficient and our pleas go unheard, there is one type of tefillah that breaks through: L’maan Shimcha Ha’gadol. For the sake of Your great Name.

Rav Chaim Volozhin (Nefesh HaChaim 2:11) writes that this is not merely the most effective tefillah; it is the only true tefillah. How can we ask Hashem to heal us, save us, or spare us, when everything He does is for our good? Who are we to request a change in the Divine plan?

The answer, says Rav Chaim, is simple: we are not davening for ourselves. We are davening for Hashem. Imo Anochi b’tzarah, Hashem suffers with us. Every ounce of Jewish pain is also Divine pain. And therefore, when we say, “Hashem, please end this suffering,” we are not pleading for ourselves. We are saying: “It’s not good for You. We want to relieve Your pain.”

When a single Jew is in pain, it is a Chillul Hashem. When Klal Yisrael suffers in exile, when the world mocks us, hates us, degrades the Torah, ridicules our ideals, and silences our voice, it is not just a tragedy for us. It is a defilement of Hashem’s honor. That, above all, must move us to tears.

This is the level described by the Tanna D’vei Eliyahu (Perek 4): “Fortunate is the one who mourns for the honor of Hashem, who grieves for the pain of Klal Yisrael, who longs and yearns and pines for the rebuilding of Yerushalayim and the return of Hashem’s glory.” Such a person, the Midrash says, is immediately enveloped in Ruach HaKodesh.

It is not enough to cry for our own pain. We must cry for His. We must cry that the Shechinah is in exile, that the King of Kings has no palace, that the Jewish people, His beloved children, are scorned in His world.

This is the essence of Tzar HaShechinah. And it is the highest form of mourning.

My dear friend, Rav Moshe Morgenstern, once shared a powerful story with me about the Klausenberger Rebbe zt”l. Every time the Rebbe would reach the pasuk in Tehillim (23:4), “Gam ki eilech b’gei tzalmaves lo ira ra ki Atah imadi—Even when I walk in the valley of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me,” he would break down in tears.

Most of us find comfort in these words. Hashem is with me, and I’m not alone. But the Klausenberger Rebbe, who endured the horrors of the Holocaust, heard something else.

He would say: “If I’m walking in the valley of death, I accept that I deserve it. I accept that it is for my kaparah (atonement). But what breaks me is that You, Ribono Shel Olam, are with me in that place. You’re suffering too. That, I cannot bear.”

That is the ultimate cry of Tisha B’av.

This is how we end the galus. Not by demanding comfort, but by yearning to end Hashem’s pain. When we sit on the floor on Tisha B’av, we don’t only cry because we’re broken. We cry because He is with us in the rubble. Because His children are despised, because His Torah is trampled, because His Name is diminished in the eyes of the world.

And so we cry: “Ribono Shel Olam, this is not good for You.” We daven: “Heal us, redeem us; not for us, but for You.” When we cry for the Shechinah, when we shift from my pain to His honor, we unlock the most powerful force in existence: Tefillah L’maan Shemo.

And in that merit, may we herald the comfort of Tzion and Yerushalayim.

Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt”l

The Passport in Heaven

At the beginning of Parshas Devarim, we read a very important Rashi. It teaches something so fundamental, so deep, that it tells you everything about how we’re supposed to speak to people when they’ve done something wrong.

Moshe Rabbeinu is giving rebuke. But he doesn’t start by pointing fingers. He doesn’t call anyone out. Instead, he names places; places where they sinned: Di Zahav, Chatzeiros, Paran... He’s reminding them of what they did, but not by spelling it out. He’s saying it indirectly, as if, “Remember what happened in Las Vegas?” He doesn’t say what the person did in Las Vegas, but they know and they remember.

That’s the brilliance of Moshe Rabbeinu. Where did he learn this method? He learned it from Hashem Himself.

Think back to Adam HaRishon. After he ate from the Eitz HaDaas, Hashem didn’t yell or scream. He just said, “Ayeka—Where are you?” Of course Hashem knew where Adam was. Why then did he ask this question? Because he wanted to give Adam the chance to come forward, to admit it. To own it.

And what did Adam do? He said, “I was afraid because I was unclothed, so I hid.” Hashem then said, “Who told you that? Did you eat from the tree?” Again, a question. Not a statement. Hashem was giving Adam the space to take responsibility.

But instead, Adam blamed Chava. “The woman You gave me is at fault. She gave me from the Eitz HaDaas...” This same blaming continued when Chava blamed the snake. No one owned what they did. And that was the problem. Rashi says that was the real aveira. Adam didn’t say, “I’m sorry. I messed up.” He blamed someone else.

And that’s why Moshe Rabbeinu, when giving rebuke, doesn’t tell Bnei Yisrael what they did wrong. He just mentions where they did it. Why? Because when you accuse someone directly, you own the rebuke. But when you speak indirectly, they own it.

If you scream at someone—your child, your student, anyone—they just think you’re out of control. “My rebbi's yelling again. My father’s always on edge.” But when you speak in a way that helps them realize it themselves, that’s when it sinks in, that’s when they grow, that’s when they take ownership.

And the truth is, this generation has a big problem: we don’t own things.

Everything is someone else’s fault. Our father, our mother, our school, the system, the world. Our therapist said it’s because we had a hard childhood. And maybe we did. Maybe we had trauma. We should never minimize that. But if nothing is our fault, then nothing is ours to fix. We’ve handed over our life to everyone else. And if we don’t own our stuff, how will we fix it? When we don’t take responsibility, the whole world owes us, and we become a victim. And then the world is supposed to give us a trip here, a therapy session there, and make everything okay because we’ve decided it’s not our fault.

That’s not Judaism. That’s not Torah.

Rashi says that Moshe made sure to state the rebuke to everyone, to all of Klal Yisrael together, because if he said it to just some of them, and those people repeated it to the others, the rest would say, “Oh, if I had been there, I would’ve answered Moshe back. I would’ve told him what’s what.”

But he said it to everyone. He said it “El kol Yisrael.” Everyone was present and everyone heard it firsthand, and Moshe paused and gave them a chance to respond. “Anyone want to say something? Anyone want to answer me?”

No one said a word. They owned it.

And that’s why, immediately after that rebuke, Moshe gives them a bracha: “Hashem Elokei Avoseichem yosef aleichem kachem elef pe’amim—Hashem should bless you and multiply you a thousandfold.”

Wait a second! You just rebuked them, and now you’re blessing them? Yes. If a person takes responsibility, if they accept the rebuke, they deserve a bracha.

Let me tell you something personal.

I used to play hockey, big time. One day, I had a huge game in Monsey. The ice was terrible: too warm with water on top, and that slows you down. It was slow ice, as they say, and very hard to skate.

I came home late that night, and saw my father. “So, how’d the game go?” he asked. I told him, “Ugh, terrible! The ice was so slow, I couldn’t skate properly.”

And my father said, “Oh, Zechariah, you lost.” “I didn’t say we lost!” I replied. “How do you know we lost?” He looked at me and said words I will never forgot: “Winners don’t make excuses.” Nobody ever says, “Let me tell you why I won...” Above us, this is a mindset. It’s how you look at the world. Do you live life as a winner, doing your very best, and if something doesn’t go right, you take responsibility for the part that you could do better next time? Or do you adopt a losing attitude, and when things go wrong, you shift the blame and turn responsibility over to someone else?

Here’s a story.

There was once a Jew who never davened, never learned, and never put on tefillin. After 120 years, he comes to the Beis Din Shel Ma’alah. “What happened?” they ask. “It’s not my fault!” he says. “My parents were secular, and I never learned how to read Hebrew. I couldn’t daven and I couldn’t learn. It wasn’t me. I didn’t know.”

So they give him a pass. Literally. A passport, signed by three rabbanim: “This Jew is allowed to go to Gan Eden or Gehinnom anytime he wants.” In and out, as he pleases.

So he goes to Gan Eden... but he doesn’t know anyone. It’s boring and quiet with shiurim all day. Not for him. So he tries Gehinnom.

And wow—it’s a party. Fire, music, people, energy. He’s amazed with the crowd. Until they tell him that in five minutes, Shabbos will be over, and he won’t want to be there anymore. Sure enough, five minutes later, the heat hits. The fellow runs to the gate to leave, but the angel stops him: “You can’t leave without a passport.” “I have one! Here, take a look!”

The angel grabs it, and begins looking at it, this way, and that way… And then he throws it into the fire. “What are you doing?” yells the man. “That’s my only way out!”

“What did it say in the passport?” asks the angel. “Because I couldn’t read, I can enter and exit Gan Eden and Gehinnom anytime I want. Why did you throw it into the fire? Can’t you read!” The angel looks back at the man. “No, they never taught me how to read up here.”

Always remember, winners have no excuses.

I was very close with Rabbi Ronnie Greenwald, zt”l. He was a master in reaching teens. One day I was visiting Camp Sternberg, and I saw him talking with a girl who had piercings and tattoos. When she walked out, he turned to me and said something that hit me.

“You see the tattoos, the piercings? That’s not Chani. That’s her trauma. Chani is underneath all that. Beneath, that’s the real Chani.”

“So you’re helping with the trauma,” I said. “Great. But who’s helping the real Chani? Who’s helping Chani’s neshama? Who’s helping her find Torah, mitzvos, Yiddishkeit?”

Because here’s the truth: the world is full of trauma. But if we stay on the floor, if we stay stuck, if we let our excuses define us, we’re done.

Tisha B’av is full of trauma. We read the Kinnos—mothers eating children, arrows raining down on young boys, hundreds of girls jumping off boats to escape Roman slavery, the Beis Hamikdash burning, our people being slaughtered. It’s overwhelming. But Hashem says: “I’m with you in the pain.” You can sit on the floor. You can cry. You can mourn. But not forever.

At chatzos, we get up. Why?

Because we can’t stay in the trauma. We can cry, we can scream, and we can fall, but we have to get back up. The same people who are crying over the worst tragedies in Jewish history, just a few hours later, they’re in the bakery, buying bagels and lox for the break-fast. Why? Because we’re not allowed to stay on the floor.

You have a right to be a victim and you have a right to cry. But you also have a responsibility to become a survivor. To take that pain and rebuild with it. That’s the message of Tisha B’av.

We cry. We remember. We mourn. But then? We get up. We keep going.

Because Am Yisrael doesn’t end on the floor. We rebuild from the ashes.

Rabbi Paysach Krohn

The Eternal Handshake

Each morning in Shacharis, as we recite Az Yashir, we echo the song the Jewish people sang at the shores of the Yam Suf. Among those sacred words, we declare: “Tivi’eimo v'sitaimo b’har nachalascha…Mikdash Hashem konenu yadecha—You will bring them and implant them on the mountain of Your heritage... the sanctuary, Hashem, that Your hands established” (Shemos 15:17).

Rav Moshe Shapiro zt”l, the brilliant ba’al machshava and ba’al mussar, posed a compelling question on this Pasuk. We find many references in Tanach to Hashem’s yad, His hand, in the singular form. For instance: “Yeminecha Hashem nedari bakoach—Your right hand, Hashem, has become glorious in power.” “Ki yad al kes Kah—For the hand is upon the throne of G-d.” But here, in Az Yashir, it says: “Yadecha”—both hands. Why the difference?

Rav Moshe Shapiro offered a profound insight. When two hands act separately, they are distinct. But when they come together, when they join in a handshake, that represents unity, relationship, connection. That, he said, is what the Beis HaMikdash embodied. It was a handshake between Klal Yisrael and HaKadosh Baruch Hu. A place of intimacy, of closeness, of embrace.

The Torah tells us in Parashat Terumah: “V’asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham—Build for Me a sanctuary and I will dwell among them” (Shemos 25:8). Why does the Pasuk say “among them” and not “in it”? Some explain that it refers to the Mishkan, along with the First and Second Temples. Others say it means Hashem will dwell within the hearts of the Jewish people. Either way, it is a message of closeness, of connection. The Mikdash was not just a building. It was the space where Hashem dwelled with us.

But today we don’t have that. We can’t build a Mikdash. We can’t travel to Jerusalem and construct it. According to the Rambam (Hilchot Melachim 11:1), only Mashiach can rebuild the Beit HaMikdash: “HaMelech HaMashiach asid la’amod u’lehashiv malchut David l’yoshna… u’boneh HaMikdash.” Mashiach alone will rebuild it.

Yet Rashi (Sukkah 41a) presents a different view: the future Mikdash will descend from Heaven, already complete. It will come down, fully built. And what is Rashi’s source? That very pasuk from Az Yashir: “Mikdash Hashem konenu yadecha.” The Mikdash of the future is the one Hashem built with His two hands. The ultimate handshake, the eternal connection.

So the question is: if we can't build it, and only Mashiach can, or it comes down from Heaven, what can we do? How can we bring it closer?

Let me share with you an incredible Midrash. It appears at the very end of Parshas Miketz, (Midrash Rabbah 88:7). The Midrash comments on the Pasuk: “V’lo zachar sar hamashkim es Yosef, vayishkachehu—The chief butler did not remember Yosef, and he forgot him.”

The Midrash asks: if it already says he didn’t remember Yosef, why does it add “and he forgot him”? And the answer is astonishing. The sar hamashkim did, in fact, remember Yosef. He tied a string around his finger to remind himself. But Hashem made him forget, because Yosef was not meant to be redeemed then. He would be freed only when Hashem decided the time was right.

Then the Midrash goes on with a repeated refrain, a mantra. “Mi haya ma’chakeh—Who could have anticipated…?

Who could have anticipated that Avraham and Sarah—aged and childless—would have a son?

Who could have anticipated that Yaakov, crossing the Jordan with nothing but a staff, would become so wealthy?

Who could have anticipated that Yosef, abandoned and imprisoned, would rise to rule Egypt?

Who could have anticipated that Moshe, the baby in a basket, would lead a nation?

Who could have anticipated that Rus, a poor Moabite convert, would become the great-grandmother of Mashiach?

And then the Midrash concludes: Who could have anticipated that a nation dispersed among the nations would rise to glory?

Years ago, I stood with a group of ninety people in Poland. We walked through Majdanek, we stood in Auschwitz. We saw the shoes, the suitcases, the silence. We saw how our people were annihilated. And yet, who could have imagined that from that destruction would arise flourishing Jewish communities around the world? Mi haya ma’chakeh?

And yet, we did rise. Here we are.

But now I want to take this Midrash even further, based on the interpretation of Rav Elia Svei zt”l, whose shmuessen were compiled by his student, Avi Deutsch, in a sefer called Ruach Eliyahu. Rav Elya explains that the phrase “Mi haya ma’chakeh” doesn’t just mean who could have imagined. It means—who was waiting, hoping, believing?

Why did Yosef become viceroy of Egypt? Because he believed in his dreams. He never gave up on them. Why did Moshe become the leader of Israel? Because Miriam, his sister, believed in him. Why did Rus become the mother of royalty? Because Naomi believed in her. Who believed in the rebirth of Torah in America? Rav Aharon Kotler, the Satmar Rebbe. They came, they believed, and they built. You have to believe in redemption for it to happen. You have to want Mashiach to come. You have to wait for him, every day. Because if we don’t believe it, if we don’t care, it won’t happen.

We say it every day in Yigdal: “Yishlach l’keitz hayamim Meshicheinu… machakei keitz yeshua so.” He will send our Redeemer at the end of days—to those who wait for His salvation.

We also say it in Ani Ma’amin: “Af al pi shehismameha, im kol zeh achake lo b’chol yom sheyavo.” Even if he delays—I will still wait for him, every single day.

And that’s the test we will all face, as the Gemara says (Shabbos 31a): “Tzipsa liYeshua— Did you hope for redemption?”

Underline these words in your siddur. When you say Shemoneh Esrei, in Es Tzemach Dovid, underline the words: “Ki lishua’scha kivinu kol hayom.” We hope for Your salvation every day. That’s our role.

And if we do? Then this time the Mikdash Hashem, the one built with His two hands, will finally come down. And we’ll experience that eternal handshake.

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

The Answer to the Call

Another year, another Tisha B’av, another day spent sitting on the floor, bent over the words of Eicha, mourning yet again. And the question that echoes louder each year is: How? How did we come to this place?

How is it possible that we, Am Yisrael, are once again facing one of the darkest waves of antisemitism since the Holocaust? How is it that after October 7th, we are surrounded by so much pain, so many orphans, so many widows, so many aching souls?

I just returned from a mission to Eretz Yisrael with a group of women I teach. We met mothers whose sons will never return. Widows raising children on their own. Brave, courageous women with hearts full of love, yet shattered by grief. The pain is overwhelming.

How? How did we get here?

Everywhere around us, Jews are waiting. Waiting for yeshuos, waiting for a shidduch, for a refuah, for parnassah, for shalom bayis. Eicha—how have we come to a world filled with so many shattered hearts?

And yet, if we’re honest, we know the answer.

Any parent who’s ever taken their children out on vacation, to a restaurant, or on a family outing, knows the feeling. If the children begin to fight in the car, or kick each other under the table, what does the parent say? “What’s the point of going out if we can’t even enjoy each other? If we can’t be kind to one another, let’s just go home.”

Hakadosh Baruch Hu says the same to us. “I gave you a Beis HaMikdash. I gave you closeness. I gave you everything. But if Kamtza and Bar Kamtza can’t sit at the same table… If Jews can’t speak to one another with respect, if they can’t forgive, if they can’t love, then what’s the point?”

Machloket kills. It’s a sliver of death. Because something beautiful dies every time a friendship is severed, a family torn, a community divided, and Hashem says, “If one of My children can’t talk to the other with love, why would I rest My Presence among you?”

The Beis HaMikdash was destroyed because of sinas chinam, baseless hatred. And it will be rebuilt through ahavas chinam, baseless love. The word Eicha, how, also echoes another word: Ayeka—where are you? It is the first question Hashem asked Adam after he sinned. And it is the question Hashem continues to ask each of us.

Ayeka? Where are you?

Where are you when your brother is in pain? Where are you when a widow cries alone? Where are you when someone is waiting for an invitation, for a phone call, for a listening ear? Tzedakah isn’t only writing a check. That’s easy. Real chesed is when someone knocks on your door and you smile. When someone needs your time, your advice, your presence—and you say, “Ani po—I’m here.”

That is the key to redemption.

After the Holocaust, the holy Klausenberger Rebbe lost his wife and 11 children. In a letter to the free world, he described the heartbreaking conditions in the DP camps: Jews wearing the brown shirts of the Hitler Youth because there were no other clothes. One hundred men sharing one tallis, waiting in line for hours to put on tefillin, and trying to glimpse a siddur from afar.

But the Rebbe’s greatest pain wasn’t the hunger. It wasn’t the cold. It was the silence. And so, he finally cried out: Ayeka! Where are you? Where is Klal Yisrael? Where is the compassion? Tisha B’Av is not just a cry of Eicha—how did this happen? It is a call of Ayeka—where am I?

And that question is echoed every day, in every airport when a Jew quietly flashes their Magen David and says, “Hey, I’m one of yours. I’m part of your tribe. Don’t forget me.” We live in a world where we hear cries of “Globalize the Intifada,” and we don’t know where the elections are going, where this world is headed.

But we do know this: Hashem is waiting.

Waiting for one brother to reach out to another. For one sister to feel the pain of another. Waiting for us to stop asking “Eicha?” and start answering “Ayeka.”

When Moshe Rabbeinu stood before the Burning Bush, he asked, Mi Anochi?—Who am I to lead? Hashem didn’t give him a strategy or a speech. He simply said, “Ki eheyeh imach—I will be with you.”

It is the first question Hashem asked Adam after he sinned. And it is the question Hashem continues to ask each of us.

Ayeka? Where are you?

Where are you when your brother is in pain? Where are you when a widow cries alone? Where are you when someone is waiting for an invitation, for a phone call, for a listening ear? Tzedakah isn’t only writing a check. That’s easy. Real chesed is when someone knocks on your door and you smile. When someone needs your time, your advice, your presence—and you say, “Ani po—I’m here.”

That is the key to redemption.

After the Holocaust, the holy Klausenberger Rebbe lost his wife and 11 children. In a letter to the free world, he described the heartbreaking conditions in the DP camps: Jews wearing the brown shirts of the Hitler Youth because there were no other clothes. One hundred men sharing one tallis, waiting in line for hours to put on tefillin, and trying to glimpse a siddur from afar.

But the Rebbe’s greatest pain wasn’t the hunger. It wasn’t the cold. It was the silence. And so, he finally cried out: Ayeka! Where are you? Where is Klal Yisrael? Where is the compassion? Tisha B’Av is not just a cry of Eicha—how did this happen? It is a call of Ayeka—where am I?

And that question is echoed every day, in every airport when a Jew quietly flashes their Magen David and says, “Hey, I’m one of yours. I’m part of your tribe. Don’t forget me.” We live in a world where we hear cries of “Globalize the Intifada,” and we don’t know where the elections are going, where this world is headed.

But we do know this: Hashem is waiting.

Waiting for one brother to reach out to another. For one sister to feel the pain of another. Waiting for us to stop asking “Eicha?” and start answering “Ayeka.”

My mother a”h once taught me something so beautiful, so deeply profound. The Torah states, in reference to the Jewish people’s exile in Egypt: “V’gam Ani shamati—And I [Hashem] also have heard.” What does that extra word, “V’gam,” also, come to teach us?

It means: When you, Am Yisrael, hear each other’s cries… when you open your hearts to one another’s pain, when you weep not only for yourselves but for each other—then I too will hear. Then I too will respond.

That, she said, is the secret to Geulah. The redemption begins not when we cry for ourselves, but when we cry for one another.

When Moshe Rabbeinu stood before the Burning Bush, he asked, Mi Anochi?—Who am I to lead? Hashem didn’t give him a strategy or a speech. He simply said, “Ki eheyeh imach—I will be with you.”

We all ask, “Mi anochi?” Who am I to make a difference? I’m not a kiruv professional. I don’t have an organization. I don’t have money. I’m just me.

But that’s the mistake. Because when Hashem is with us, we can do everything.

I recently watched a video that broke me. It was Ori Itzchak Hadad’s mother speaking after his death in Gaza. She said: “Ori lived just 21 and a half years, but he lived with greatness. It’s as if Hashem came to us and said, ‘To bring the geulah, someone will have to pay a price.’ And if Ori had been asked, ‘Will you be that one?’ he would have said, Ani—let it be me.”

He died al kiddush Hashem. But we can live al kiddush Hashem.

So this year, on this night of Eicha, on this day of Tisha B’av, let us answer Ayeka with Ani. Let each of us take one small step. It doesn’t have to be grand. Just one change. One act of kindness, one invitation, one phone call, one moment of love, one whisper of teshuva.

And may that one step become a bridge to tell the Ribbono Shel Olam, “We are taking one step toward You. Please, take one step toward us. And bring us home.”

Mr. Charlie Harary

More, Not Less

Every year, we walk into Tisha B’av carrying a heavy heart. We know what’s expected of us. We fast. We mourn. And deep down, there’s a gnawing thought: Has Hashem left us? Isn’t that the feeling we’re meant to sit with? That Tisha B’av marks the time when G-d turned away from us, when we weren’t good enough… when He left, and we don’t know if or when He’ll return.

But maybe that’s not the avodah. Maybe that’s not the goal at all.

I recently came across a powerful piece from the Leshem—Rav Shlomo Elyashiv zt”l, the grandfather of Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv zt”l. He wrote on bitachon, on trust in Hashem, and it reframed everything.

He explains that when the Jewish people were taken out of Egypt, they were redeemed through a unique mode of Divine interaction—Erech Anpin, Hashem’s boundless patience and kindness. He simply gave, He shined light, He lifted them out.

But once they crossed the Yam Suf, fear set in. What if this light disappears? What if Hashem withdraws His kindness? What if we’re left alone, to be judged, to bear the weight of our mistakes?

So Hashem brought them into the wilderness not to punish them, but to test them. Water would run dry, food would be scarce, Amalek would attack, Moshe would disappear on the mountain, and the Land of Canaan would seem terrifying. All of it was a test.

And the test was this: Would the Jewish people believe that Hashem left them? Or would they hold on to the one truth that matters most—that He never left at all?

Because the strongest power a Jew possesses is bitachon. The deepest spiritual strength is the ability to say, “Even in darkness, He is here with me.” The challenge is not to feel abandoned when tragedy strikes, but to remember: the pain isn’t proof of distance. It’s the whisper of closeness.

Tisha B’av lives in a month called Av. A month named for a Father. Hashem wants us to remember, even on the darkest day of the year: I am your Father. I never left.

It wasn’t Hashem who turned away. It was us. We distanced ourselves. We thought we could do it on our own. We forgot to see the open arms that were always there.

So the avodah of Tisha B’av is not despair. It’s not about confirming our worst fears. It’s about reminding ourselves of the deepest truth—that He is still here. That He never stopped being our Av. That He is waiting for us to come home.

Whether you’re facing personal pain, national tragedy, or just another Tisha B’av, this is our task: to return with more bitachon, not less. To believe harder. To walk forward with confidence, the way our ancestors should have walked into Eretz Yisrael—with faith, with dignity, with the unshakable knowledge that Hashem is with us.

This Tisha B’av, as we mourn the past and fear the future, let us not fall into despair. Let us rise with the quiet, steady strength of one who knows: He never left. Not for a moment. He’s been beside us all along.

And now, it’s our turn to walk toward Him.

Rabbi YY Jacobson

Mashiach, Today

One of the questions that sits heavily on our hearts, especially on Tisha B’av, is this. We grew up with the concept of Mashiach. We've been taught to believe in it and we've waited for it. But here we are, nearly 2,000 years after the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, and we still ask: What is Mashiach? What does it really mean?

This is the question of all questions. And today, more than any other, is the time to ask it.

The very fact that for thousands of years Jews have spoken about Mashiach—not once or twice a day, but dozens of times, in joy and in sorrow—shows how deeply this idea is embedded in our spiritual DNA. Mashiach isn’t a footnote in Judaism. It is Judaism.

The Midrash teaches that in the very beginning of Creation, when the Torah says, “And the spirit of G-d hovered over the waters,” that spirit is the spirit of Mashiach.

Mashiach is not just a person or a moment. It’s a deep belief that the universe was conceived in love. Beneath the chaos and brokenness, everything is one. Ein od milvado. There is nothing but Hashem.

Every soul, every moment, every detail of this world is a spark of Divine energy. But we live in a world of blockages—trauma, ego, pain, confusion. We are in exile, and not just physically, but spiritually. Exiled from ourselves, from each other, from our Source.

Mashiach is when that veil is lifted. When we finally see each other, and ourselves, as fragments of a great Oneness.

And here’s the key: the work of Mashiach doesn’t begin when he arrives. It begins now. In me. In you. Every time we confront our own darkness. Every time we choose to live with faith, with openness, with Divine consciousness. That is Mashiach. That is redemption.

The prophet Yeshayahu says that when Mashiach comes, we will say: “Odecha Hashem ki anafta bi—I thank You, Hashem, for having been angry with me” (Yeshayahu 12:1). Meaning, we will look back at all of history and say, thank you.

But how? What can possibly justify all the pain? All the loss? One child’s death, let alone rivers of tears, centuries of persecution? Free sushi? Easy shidduchim? No tuition?

Of course not.

The revelation of Mashiach will bring a clarity and joy so profound that we will understand what we never could. We will see why the journey had to be this way. And we will finally see the light that was hidden in the darkness. That is Mashiach.

And the more we awaken that light now—the more we live with compassion and unity—the closer we bring that day.

Not a day we just hope for. But a day we can begin to live.