Rabbi YY Jacobson

The Nation That Remains Young

They tell a story about Albert Einstein, who was, of course, one of the greatest scientists of the twentieth century. But alongside his brilliance, he was also famous for being somewhat absent-minded.

One day, Einstein was traveling by train from Princeton. As was common in those days, the conductor would walk from carriage to carriage collecting and punching tickets. The conductor eventually arrived at Einstein's seat and asked for his ticket.

Einstein reached into his jacket pocket. No ticket. He checked the other pocket. No ticket. He searched through his trousers. Nothing. He opened his briefcase. Still nothing. Then he got down on his hands and knees and began looking under the seat and around the floor.

No ticket.

The conductor immediately recognized him. "Professor Einstein," he said with a smile, "it's quite all right. We all know who you are. You're Albert Einstein and I'm sure you purchased a ticket. Don't worry about it." Einstein nodded, and the conductor continued down the train.

A few moments later, the conductor happened to glance back. To his astonishment, he saw Einstein still crawling around on the floor, searching frantically beneath the seats.

The conductor hurried back. "Professor Einstein," he said, "I already told you, it's fine. I know who you are. You're Albert Einstein and I don't need to see your ticket."

Einstein looked up and replied, "Young man, I also know who I am." Then he paused. "But I don't know where I'm going."

That is often the far more important question. Knowing who you are is important. Knowing where you're going is essential. A person can possess tremendous intelligence, remarkable talent, extraordinary success, and still be unclear about the direction of his life. The greatest challenge is not only identity. It is destination.

There is another story, this one involving Moshe Dayan, Israel's legendary Defense Minister.

Dayan was driving on an Israeli highway at a rather impressive speed and well above what the law would have preferred. A police officer pulled him over and approached the car. "General Dayan, you are one of the most recognizable people in the country. You're supposed to be setting an example for Israeli society. How could you be driving so fast?" The officer informed him that not only was he receiving a ticket, but because of the circumstances, the fine would be substantially increased.

Moshe Dayan, with his characteristic wit, looked at the officer and said, "Officer, look at me." The officer looked. Dayan pointed to his famous eye patch. "I only have one eye." Then he asked, "What exactly would you like me to do with that eye?" "Should I watch the speedometer?" "Or should I watch the road?"

Now, of course, it was a joke. But like many good jokes, there is something beneath the humor. Life forces us to choose where we focus our attention. What are we looking at? What are we paying attention to? What occupies our vision?

Some people spend their lives watching the speedometer. How fast am I going? How much do I have? How am I doing compared to everyone else? Others keep their eyes on the road. Where am I heading? What kind of person am I becoming? What is my purpose and destination?

Einstein's question was, "Where am I going?" Moshe Dayan's question was, "What should I be looking at?"

Perhaps those are two of the most important questions a person can ever ask himself. Where am I going? And what am I focusing on as I travel there?

Who Am I?

Now, whenever I tell that story about Moshe Dayan, there is always somebody in the audience who asks the same question. "So, did he get the ticket or not?"

My grandmother used to say that there are three types of Jews: a shlemiel, a shlimazel, and a nudnik. The shlemiel is the fellow who spills the soup. The shlimazel is the fellow on whom the soup gets spilled. And the nudnik is the person who wants to know what kind of soup it was.

So I have no idea whether Dayan got the ticket. And frankly, I don’t think it makes too much of a difference. The point is that his insight was penetrating. What are you looking at? That question is much more important than whether he paid a fine.

It reminds me of another story, which introduces us to the other area of focus: identity.

When Donald Trump was running for president, he visited Miami Beach in an effort to attract Jewish voters. As part of the visit, he stopped at what we would today call an assisted-living facility.

Trump walks into the building and notices a ninety-nine-year-old woman sitting in a chair. Approaching her, he says, "Hello! Do you know who I am?" The woman looks up and says, "No, son. Who are you?" Trump is surprised. "You don't know who I am?" "No," she says. "Who are you?" Trump tries again. "The whole world knows who I am! How could you not know who I am?" The woman shrugs. "I really don't know."

At this point Trump is practically pounding on the table. "Tell me you know who I am!" An eighty-nine-year-old woman nearby hears the commotion and slowly walks over. She gently places her hand on his shoulder and begins to comfort him. "Relax, dear," she says, "relax.

"This happens all the time around here. I'll call the head nurse. She'll tell you who you are."

The question of identity is one of the deepest questions a human being can ask and every human being wrestles with those questions. The search for identity lies at the heart of the human condition. And the Torah teaches us that before a person can know what he is supposed to do, he must know who he is.

Rabbi Herzog and Professor Toynbee

A fellow has been in therapy for twenty-nine years, when finally, his therapist tells him, "You know what? Take a vacation. Get away for a little while and relax." So he flies off to the Bahamas. A few days later, his psychologist receives a postcard. It reads:

"Dear Doctor, I'm here in the Bahamas. The weather is beautiful and the beaches are magnificent. I'm having a wonderful time. I only wish you were here to tell me why."

When it comes to the question of identity, life can be confusing. People spend years trying to figure themselves out.

There is a famous exchange between Golda Meir and Henry Kissinger. When Golda Meir became Prime Minister of Israel, she wrote a letter to Kissinger expressing her hope that they would enjoy a close and productive working relationship. Kissinger responded with a clarification.

"Madam Prime Minister," he wrote, "you must understand my priorities." "First, I am an American citizen. Second, I am the Secretary of State of the United States. And third, I happen to be Jewish. In that order."

Golda Meir's response was brilliant. "That is precisely why I am looking forward to working closely with you. Because here in Israel, we read from right to left."

So what is it? What is the deepest layer of our identity? When all the titles are stripped away, when all the achievements disappear, when all the labels fall away, who are we really?

In the Gemara, there is a concept called "Hakol holech achar hachitom—Everything follows the conclusion” (Berachos 12a). Such a notion brings to mind one of the most remarkable books ever written: the ten chapters of Megillas Esther. It is a story that, on the surface, appears to be about politics and power; royal intrigue and palace drama. But beneath it all is a story about identity.

Who is Esther? Who is Mordechai? Who are the Jewish people? What happens when a person conceals his identity? And what happens when a person discovers it?

The entire Megillah turns on that question.

A man arose who was, in many ways, the Hitler of his generation. Haman sought not merely to persecute the Jewish people, but to annihilate them completely. And unlike seventy or eighty years ago, when there were large Jewish communities throughout the world, at the time of the Purim story virtually the entire Jewish people lived within the Persian Empire, which stretched from India to Ethiopia. There was nowhere else to run. There was no America or Australia. There was no refuge across the ocean. The fate of the entire Jewish people hung in the balance. And yet, despite all of the drama, all of the intrigue, all of the miracles and reversals, I want to focus on something very simple. The final verse.  

The Megillah concludes by describing Mordechai. "Ki Mordechai HaYehudi mishneh laMelech Achashverosh—Mordechai the Jew was second only to King Achashverosh” (Esther 10:3). That's impressive. Mordechai is the Prime Minister of the most powerful empire in the world.

Then the verse continues: "V'gadol laYehudim—Great among the Jews.” Even more impressive.

Then: "V'ratzui l'rov echav—Beloved by most of his brethren.” Not all, of course. There are always a few people who disagree. But most Jews appreciated him.

Then: "Doresh tov l'amo—He sought the welfare of his people.” Beautiful.

But then comes the final phrase. The crescendo and ultimate tribute. "V'dover shalom l'chol zaro—He spoke peacefully to all his descendants.”

Really? That's how the Megillah ends? Prime Minister of Persia. Great among the Jews. Beloved by most Jews. Protector of his people. And the final compliment is that he spoke peacefully to his children? Is that really the greatest thing you can say about Mordechai?

Think about it. The Megillah seems to be teaching us something profound. Success is wonderful. Leadership is wonderful. Influence is wonderful. But if a person cannot speak peacefully to the people closest to him, then something essential is missing.

The true measure of greatness is not how a person speaks from the podium. It is how he speaks at the dinner table. Not how he addresses the nation, but how he addresses his spouse and his children. Those are the people who know him best. That is the final tribute to Mordechai.

It reminds me of a fascinating public debate that took place in 1959 at McGill University in Canada. On one side stood Rabbi Dr. Yaakov Herzog, Israel's ambassador to Canada. Rabbi Yaakov Herzog was a remarkable figure. He was the son of Rabbi Yitzchak Isaac Halevi Herzog, Chief Rabbi of Israel; the brother of Chaim Herzog, who would later become President of Israel; and a brilliant scholar, diplomat, and intellectual in his own right.

Facing him was the famous British historian Arnold Toynbee. Toynbee argued that the Jews were not truly a nation. They were merely a religion or a culture. After all, there were American Jews, British Jews, French Jews, Russian Jews, Australian Jews. Just as there are Christians of many nationalities, Toynbee claimed that Jews were simply adherents of a religion scattered throughout various nations. Rabbi Herzog responded with an idea that has remained with me ever since.

Imagine, he said, that three airplanes land one evening. The first lands in Athens and an elderly gentleman steps off the plane, whereupon a customs officer immediately approaches him. "Welcome to Greece," he says. "May I ask your name?"

The old man replies, "My name is Socrates." The officer laughs. "Socrates? Really? What brings you to Athens?" Socrates looks puzzled. "What do you mean, what brings me to Athens? This is my city. Take me to the Acropolis." The officer says, "For a small fee I can show you what's left of the Acropolis."

Socrates shakes his head, yet continues.  "How is Greek philosophy doing these days?" The officer shrugs. "Greek philosophy?" "Yes," says Socrates. "What about Plato? Aristotle? The schools of philosophy? The discussions in the academies?" The officer stares blankly. "Nobody talks about those things anymore." "What do they talk about?” asks Socrates, shocked.  "I don't know,” replies the offer. “Technology, politics, sports, the newest iPhone."

Socrates is horrified. "Take me to Mount Olympus." "Why?" "I want to see Zeus." The officer laughs. "Nobody worships Zeus anymore." "What do you mean?" asks Socrates. "We're members of the Greek Orthodox Church." "The Greek Orthodox Church? What is that?" And suddenly Socrates realizes that although Greece survived, the world that produced Socrates did not. The buildings remain, but the civilization itself has largely disappeared.

Rabbi Herzog's point was that the Jewish story is fundamentally different. The Jewish people have wandered through continents and centuries and empires rose and fell around them. Kingdoms appeared and disappeared. And yet somehow a Jew can open a Chumash today and read the very same words his ancestors read thousands of years ago. A child in Jerusalem, a child in New York, a child in London and a child in Melbourne are all part of the same story.

The question is not, "Where do I live?" The question is, "Who am I?" And perhaps even more importantly: "What story do I belong to?"

Identity is not simply about geography. It is about continuity. It is about knowing where you come from, who you are, and what mission has been entrusted to you. And that is a question every generation must answer anew.

Meeting Moses from Tbilisi

A Jewish man is conflicted. And therefore, most Jewish men need therapy. What is Jewish therapy? Jewish therapy is essentially negotiating the gap between what your mother taught you about yourself and what your wife keeps teaching you about yourself. Your mother spent twenty-five years convincing you that you are a genius, a prince, a gift to humanity, perhaps even the reason the sun rises every morning.

Then you get married. And your wife begins the process of bringing you back to reality.

Your mother told you that you are extraordinary. Your wife is trying to determine whether you are qualified to operate a dishwasher. And somewhere between those two realities lies the average Jewish husband. Living in the tension between believing you are a god and wondering whether you have permission to express an opinion creates a profound existential crisis. That is what many therapists spend decades helping people navigate.

But here is the fascinating thing.

According to the Christian story, Yeshu never got married. So he was able to maintain indefinitely what his mother believed about him. And today, two and a half billion people believe it as well. Had some of us remained single, who knows what might have happened. But let us return to our story.

Socrates is standing in Athens and asks, "How is the Greek Empire doing?" The customs officer says, "Sir, there has been no Greek Empire for over two thousand years." "What do you mean?" "We're a country. A member of NATO,” comes the reply. "NATO? What's NATO?" Socrates is bewildered. "Do people still speak ancient Greek?" "Only a handful of scholars." "Do people study philosophy?" "Not very much." Socrates shakes his head. "This is not my Athens,” he says, and he leaves.

A second airplane lands. This time in Rome. An imposing figure steps off the plane. A soldier, a statesman, a conqueror. He is a man carrying the scars of battle. A customs official approaches him. "Welcome to Rome. May I ask your name?" The man replies, "My name is Julius Caesar." The official smiles. "From the Caesar salad?" Caesar stares at him. "In my day, I could have had you executed for that answer."

"I am Julius Caesar! The Caesar of Rome! Tell me, do people still tremble when they hear the name Rome?" The official laughs. "No one trembles anymore.” “You mean there's no Roman Empire?” asks Julius Caesar incredulously. “There hasn't been a Roman Empire for fifteen hundred years,” says the official.

"What is Rome then?" "A city in Italy,” the officer says. "Italy? What's Italy?" "A member of NATO." Again with NATO. Caesar asks to see the Senate, the Colosseum, the gladiators, the temples.

Each time he is told the same thing. The empire is gone. The culture is gone. The religion is gone. The language is largely gone. The world that Caesar knew has disappeared.

And finally Caesar says: "This is not my Rome,” and he leaves.

Then a third airplane lands. This one lands at Ben Gurion Airport and an elderly man walks off the plane.

Someone greets him immediately. "Shalom Aleichem!" The old man responds instinctively: "Aleichem Shalom." "What is your name?" asks the fellow. The old man says, "My name is Moshe Rabbeinu." The man lights up. "Gam ani Moshe (I too am Moshe)! Moshe from Tbilisi! Maybe you can lend me some money. I've only been here eight months. I made aliyah and they already ripped me off. I'm collecting tzedakah for my cousin's nephew's neighbor." Immediately they're having a Jewish conversation.

And that is the point.

The Greek world disappeared. The Roman world disappeared. But Moshe steps off the plane thousands of years later and immediately finds himself at home. The language is familiar, the greetings are familiar, the concerns are familiar, the arguments are familiar, the requests for loans are familiar. Everything is familiar. The continuity is astonishing.

Now, I travel a great deal. And I love Jews. I truly do. I just don't always love traveling with Jews. Traveling with non-Jews is easy. They arrive at the airport four hours early and sit quietly with one carry-on bag, one passport and one cup of coffee.

A Jew arrives at the airport carrying three thousand years of history, four suitcases, his mother's baggage, his father-in-law's baggage, his yeshivah's baggage, his community's baggage, and his physical, emotional and historical baggage. And then he boards the airplane.

Have you ever watched Jews board an airplane? It is a sociological study. They open every overhead compartment. They move from seat to seat. They negotiate, they rearrange, they exchange. They borrow and lend.

The poor non-Jew sitting nearby is wondering what he did wrong in a previous life to end up on this flight. Finally, twenty minutes later, the flight attendant says, "Sir, the entire plane is waiting for you. Please sit down and fasten your seatbelt."

And the fellow turns to his wife and says: "She's an anti-Semite. The Holocaust will not happen again. No one is going to tell a Jew where to sit." Eventually he sits down.

Ten minutes later there is Mincha. A little while later there is Maariv. Soon there is Shacharis. Someone is looking for a siddur. Someone needs a Tehillim. Someone wants a Chumash. Someone needs baby food. Someone needs Tylenol. Someone wants to know a segulah from the Baba Sali. Someone else wants directions to Uman.

One fellow got so frustrated that before an El Al flight he posted a giant sign next to his seat. The sign read: "I davened Mincha. I davened Maariv. I am not interested in joining a minyan. I do not have a siddur. I do not have a Tehillim. I do not have a Mishnah Berurah. I do not have diapers. I do not have baby food. I do not have sushi. I do not have sponge cake. I do not have antibiotics. And I do not know any segulah for surviving a plane crash."

Then he put on his eye mask and fell asleep. Five minutes later someone poked him sharply in the ribs. Not gently. Jews don't wake people gently; they poke, hard. He opens his eyes, disgruntled. "Did you read the sign?" "Yes," comes the reply. "Did you read the whole sign?" "Yes," the man answers flatly. "So what do you want?" The fellow says, "None of that interests me. I just wanted to know if you could give tzedakah for a yeshivah."

Somehow, despite all of it, you have to love Jews. We are restless, passionate, complicated, demanding, traumatized, funny, and astonishingly resilient. Sometimes non-Jews ask me, “What is it with Jews?" And I tell them, “You have to understand Jewish psychology. For many Jews, every meal feels like it could potentially be the last meal. Three thousand years of exile leaves its mark. So when food appears, we eat. And eat. And eat. Not because we're hungry, but because somewhere deep inside, Jewish history is sitting at the table with us. We carry thousands of years of memories, thousands of years of fears and thousands of years of hopes, and somehow, despite everything, we are still here, arguing, laughing and still collecting tzedakah.

Welcome Home, Moses

And so the story continues. The fellow from Tbilisi looks at him and says, "Moshe, where are you from?" The old man smiles. "Egypt." "Egypt?" he asks. "What brings you here?" "I came home," Moshe responds. The fellow looks puzzled. "Home? You've never been here before." Moshe smiles. "Forty years I tried to get into this place and it didn't work. Trust me, I have earned the right to call it home."

The Georgian Jew becomes emotional. "Moshe Rabbeinu," he says, "Bruchim Haba'im Habaytah. Welcome home!” Moshe pauses. "I have one awkward question. You see, Socrates was in a hurry and Julius Caesar was in a hurry. I was also in a hurry and I forgot something. Do you think anybody here still has what we used to call a tallis and tefillin?"

The fellow from Tbilisi looks offended. "Now I'm beginning not to like you. What do you think? You're the only Jew in the world? You think you're the only one who remembers Judaism? Of course we have tallisim and tefillin! In fact, I put them on this morning."

Moshe's eyes widen. "Really? One more question. You know, in Heaven there isn't much food. And it’s not only for forty days and forty nights. It’s for thousands of years. Tell me, is there any food here?"

The Georgian bursts out laughing. "Food? That's what we do best! In fact, all Jewish holidays follow the same pattern. They tried to kill us. We survived. Let's eat. We have turned our enemies into menu items. We took Haman and turned him into hamantaschen. We took Pharaoh and turned him into matzah balls. We took the Greeks and turned them into latkes and doughnuts.”

Parenthetically, I was once speaking at a large college during Chanukah. The president of the college was a non-Jewish woman and she asked me, "Rabbi, why do Jews eat so many doughnuts on Chanukah?" "It's very simple,” I said. "Chanukah celebrates our victory over the Greeks. The Greeks were devoted to four things: beauty, fitness, athletics, and physical perfection. So we eat as many doughnuts and latkes as possible to make sure we never look like them." The struggle continues to this day.

So the fellow from Tbilisi tells Moshe, “Food? We have every type of food imaginable. Restaurants and cafés everywhere." Moshe interrupts. "Kosher?" The fellow rolls his eyes. "Again with the judgment. Of course kosher! "Regular kosher?” asks Moshe. "No, no, Glatt kosher. Mehadrin. Min hamehadrin. Badatz. This Badatz, that Badatz, and the other Badatz. We have enough levels of kashrus to keep Jews arguing until Mashiach arrives."

As they walk through the airport, the fellow from Tbilisi reaches over and kisses a mezuzah. Moshe stops. "What are you doing?" The fellow stares at him. "What do you mean? Three thousand years ago, we had a man named Moshe. And G-d taught him and he taught us to place these words of Torah on our doorposts. We kiss them when we enter and when we leave."

Moshe says nothing. The fellow takes him outside and they pass a school. Through the window, Moshe hears a teacher speaking. The teacher says, "Open your Chumashim." The children open their books. And then the teacher begins to read, "Vayedaber Hashem el Moshe leimor—And Hashem spoke to Moshe, saying..." At that moment, two tears begin to flow down the old man's face. Not tears of sadness. Tears of wonder.

Three thousand years have passed. Empires have risen and fallen and kings have come and gone. Civilizations have disappeared. And yet Jewish children are still studying the same Torah. The same words. The same text. The same story.

At this point, Rabbi Yaakov Herzog turned to Arnold Toynbee and asked him a question. "Professor Toynbee, are the Greeks a nation?" "Of course." "Are the Italians a nation?" "Certainly." Rabbi Herzog replied, "If Socrates returned to Athens today, what would he recognize? The geography perhaps, but not the religion. Not the philosophy. Not the language. Not the civilization. If Julius Caesar returned to Rome, what would he recognize? The ruins perhaps, but not the empire. And yet we call them nations. But if Moshe Rabbeinu returned today to Eretz Yisrael, what would he see? He would hear the same Hebrew language. He would see the same Torah. He would encounter the same mitzvos. The same Shabbos. The same matzah. And yes, the matzah is still stale. When you taste matzah, you know immediately that it is three thousand years old. For heaven's sake, even the arguments are the same. The same people are wrestling with the same questions and carrying the same destiny.

“That,” said Rabbi Herzog, “is the definition of a nation. Not merely people who share a piece of land, but a people who share a memory. A people who share a mission. A people who share a covenant that survives the rise and fall of empires. The same Torah, the same G-d, the same story, three thousand years later.”

"Professor Toynbee," Rabbi Herzog said, "if this is not a nation, then you tell me what a nation is." To Toynbee's credit, he was intellectually honest enough to acknowledge the force of the argument. He responded, "Dr. Herzog, you have made a very powerful point."

But that leaves us with a further question.

How did this happen? How did this occur? How is it that a people who do not even constitute one quarter of one percent of humanity have managed to survive while so many mighty civilizations have vanished into the sands of history?

Think about it. There are more than two billion Christians in the world. There are well over a billion Muslims. There are over a billion Chinese. In fact, by the time you finish this sentence, there may be another million. And we? We're barely fifteen million people. We are not one percent of humanity. We're not half a percent of humanity. We're not even a quarter of a percent of humanity. We are a tiny statistical anomaly; a rounding error on a Chinese census. And yet I ask you, where is Pharaoh, Nebuchadnezzar, Haman, Achashverosh, Alexander, Titus, Hadrian, Pompey, Vespasian, Chmielnicki, Stalin and Hitler? Where are they?

The answer, of course, is very simple. They're all on Wikipedia. You can look them up. You can even edit their pages if you're ambitious enough. You can update Titus and you can revise Haman's obituary. But we are still here.

How did that happen? What is the secret?

Remaining Young

I believe there are two answers.

The first answer is that every civilization that wishes to remain young must invest itself in the young. Most nations made a mistake. They believed that the secret of survival was to focus on the powerful, the accomplished, the mature, the elite. The Jewish people understood something different. The future belongs to those who invest in their children. A nation that pours its energy into the next generation never grows old. Three thousand years later, we are still young because our greatest joy, our greatest obsession, our greatest investment has always been our children.

You know the famous joke…

There was a rabbi who used to speak constantly about the importance of loving children. Every Shabbos he would get up and talk about children. Children are our future. Children are our treasure. Children are our greatest blessing.

One day they poured fresh concrete in front of his house. Now children, as you know, have an irresistible need to leave their mark on the universe. So a group of neighborhood children began dancing through the wet concrete. The rabbi came running outside.

" What are you doing? Look what you've done! Somebody stop them!" His wife came out and said, "I don't understand. Every week you speak about loving children."

The rabbi replied, "I love children in the abstract, not in the concrete." But Judaism has always loved children in the concrete. How do I know? Because on the day the Jewish people left Egypt, Moshe Rabbeinu delivered what may have been the most important speech of his life.

Imagine the scene. After centuries of slavery, what would you tell four million newly liberated people?

Most of us would probably make a speech. We would write a book. We would unveil a monument and hold a national celebration. Maybe we'd say l'chaim and start eating.

Moshe says something entirely different. Two words. "V'higadeta l'vincha—Tell the story to your child.” Don't take this moment for granted. Don't assume it will survive on its own. Don't imagine that freedom is self-perpetuating.

Tell the story. And not only tell the story—live the story.

Every year, I want you to eat matzah. Every year I want you to sit around a table and tell your children what happened. I want the memory to become an experience. I want history to become personal. I want every generation to feel as though they themselves walked out of Egypt. Because the moment a nation stops teaching its children, it begins writing its own obituary. And the moment a nation makes its children the center of its attention, that nation remains forever young.

This Is My Kushan

In 1937, David Ben-Gurion was summoned before the famous Peel Commission, headed by Lord Peel, which had been established by the British government to determine the future of what was then called Palestine.

At one point during the proceedings, Lord Peel turned to Ben-Gurion and asked him a simple but penetrating question. "Mr. Ben-Gurion, where is your kushan?" A kushan is the Arabic word for a deed, a title of ownership. "The Arabs have a kushan," Lord Peel said. "Where is your deed? Where is your title? Where is your proof?"

After all, it was a fair question. "You were born in Poland and your name isn't even Ben-Gurion. Your name is David Gruen. On what basis are you claiming this land?"

There happened to be a Tanach sitting on the table. Now Ben-Gurion was not what we would call a traditionally observant Jew. He was a secular Jew. But he reached over, picked up the Bible, held it in his hand, and said: "Lord Peel, this is my kushan." Then he opened it and said: "It says here hundreds of times that this land was given to the Jewish people."

And then Ben-Gurion asked Lord Peel a question.

"Lord Peel, you have gathered here some of the finest minds in Britain. Professors, historians, journalists, researchers and intellectuals. Let me ask you something… How many of your children know the exact date the Mayflower arrived in America? How many know how many passengers were on board?" How many know what they ate on the voyage?"

Silence.

Then Ben-Gurion said: "Ask any Jewish child who received even a minimal Jewish education. He will tell you when we left Egypt. He will tell you what we ate when we left. He will tell you why we ate it. He will tell you what happened before we left. And he will tell you what happened afterward."

Why? Because Moshe Rabbeinu understood something that very few leaders in history understood. The day the Jews left Egypt, Moshe did not merely say: "Remember." He said: "V'higadeta l'vincha."

Tell it to your children.  Make the story part of your bloodstream. Make it part of your home. Make it part of your children's imagination. Stories survive when they are transmitted, and civilizations survive when their children inherit their memories. But what does that really mean? What does it mean to tell the story to your children?

There was once a young boy preparing his Bar Mitzvah speech.

He came to his mother and asked: "Mommy, what should I speak about?" She said: "Speak about family. Speak about yichus."

Now in some communities, yichus (lineage) is practically a second religion. The boy said, "Wonderful. So where do we come from?" His mother began immediately. "Adam and Chava. Avraham and Sarah. Yitzchak and Rivkah. Yaakov, Rachel, and Leah."

The boy nodded and then went to his father. His father happened to be a graduate of Oxford. "Daddy, where do we come from?" His father adjusted his glasses and said, “Well, son, over billions of years there was evolution. Primates evolved from earlier forms of life and life emerged from simple organisms. Eventually human beings appeared."

The boy returned to his mother completely confused. "Mommy, I don't know what to say in my speech." "Why not?" she asked. "You tell me we come from Adam and Chava, but Daddy tells me we come from apes and bacteria. So where exactly do we come from?"

His mother looked at him and smiled. "There's no contradiction. Your father was talking about his side of the family. I was talking about mine."

Now that's a Jewish answer.

How do I look at my child? What do I see when I see a Jewish child? And that brings me to something I never understood when I was younger.

Why can't we count Jews directly? You want a minyan and nine people are standing there and then a tenth walks in. Why can't somebody simply say: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten." Instead we count verses. "Hoshiah es amecha..." or whatever custom your community uses. Why? What's the big deal? Jews love counting. We count everything. A Jewish singer performs a concert and the non-Jews enjoy the music. The Jews count how many people attended. Then they calculate how much each ticket cost. Then they estimate how much the singer made. Then they determine whether he really deserves that amount. And before the concert is over, they've already decided whether they'll buy tickets next year.

We count. We count attendance. We count donations. We count square footage. We count who came and who didn't come. So why does the Torah say not to count Jews? And why was Dovid HaMelech punished so severely when he counted the nation (see Shmuel II 24:1-25)?

The answer, I believe, is extraordinarily profound. When nations count people, they are usually measuring power. How many soldiers? How many citizens? How many taxpayers?

Numbers become a way of measuring strength. But if the Jewish people measured themselves by numbers alone, we would have disappeared long ago. Fifteen million Jews. That's it. Not one percent of humanity. Not half a percent. Not even a quarter of a percent.

And if we judged ourselves the way nations judge themselves, we would become discouraged very quickly. So the Torah says: don't count heads; count contributions. Don't count bodies; count souls.

When a census was taken in the wilderness, every Jew gave a half-shekel. The coins were counted, but not the people. A Jew is not a statistic or number. A Jew is a universe. And the question is never, "How many Jews are there?" The question is, "What is each Jew contributing?"

What Are You Counting?

In every generation, people looked at the Jewish people and declared with absolute confidence that this time we would not survive. From the Babylonians to the Nazis, every empire said it, and in every generation somebody stood up and announced that the Jewish story was finally coming to an end.

So Hashem says something extraordinary.

Don't count Jews. Never count Jews. Because if you count Jews, you will inevitably reach the wrong conclusion. Count their contributions instead. That's where you'll discover who they really are.

Take the four revolutions that shaped the modern world. In science and physics, Albert Einstein. In politics and economics, Karl Marx. In psychology and psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud. In biology, Charles Darwin. Whether one agrees with them or disagrees with them, whether for good or for bad, these four individuals fundamentally transformed the way modern civilization thinks about itself.

Now, three of them were Jewish. Darwin wasn't. Since 1901, there have been hundreds upon hundreds of Nobel Prizes awarded. The Jewish people are a tiny fraction of humanity. If the prizes were distributed proportionately, we would expect a handful. Instead, nearly two hundred Nobel Prizes have gone to Jews in medicine, physics, chemistry, economics, literature and peace. Completely disproportionate to our numbers. How does that happen?

The answer is that Hashem says: don't count Jews. Count what they contribute.

And that is precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was teaching. He wasn't merely saying, "Tell the story to your children." He was saying something deeper. Tell every child that he matters. Tell every child that he has something unique to contribute.

The Boy Who Was the Black Sheep

A few years ago, I finished speaking for an organization called Children at Risk in Deal, New Jersey. After the lecture, a gentleman approached me. His name was Dr. David Pelcovitz. For decades he has been a professor of psychology and a therapist. He told me the following story.

He said that twenty-five years earlier, a sixteen-year-old boy walked into his office. Dr. Pelcovitz looked at him and asked, "Why are you here?" The boy shrugged. "My father says I need therapy." "Why?" asked Dr. Pelcovitz. "Because all my brothers are learning and succeeding and accomplishing things,” the boy replied, “and I spend most of my time sitting on a couch. I sleep late, I waste time, and my father thinks something is wrong with me."

Dr. Pelcovitz told me, "Within two minutes I fell in love with this kid. He was bright, funny and thoughtful. He was a wonderful young man." At the end of the session I said, "You don't need therapy. Next week bring your parents. And bring your grandparents too." The boy looked at him. "My grandparents?" "Who brings grandparents to therapy?" But the following week they all came.

The father sat down and Dr. Pelcovitz asked him what the problem was. The father immediately launched into a description of his family. "This son finished Shas. This son gives shiurim. This son runs a kollel. This son is involved in chessed. This son is a tremendous talmid chacham. My daughters are wonderful. And then there's this one."

He pointed at the sixteen-year-old. "He's wasting his life. He's wasting his potential." As the father was speaking, the grandfather suddenly stood up.

He looked around the room and said, "I think it's time somebody told the truth." Then he turned to his grandchildren.

"I grew up in Poland and there were fifteen children in my family. All of my brothers were extraordinary students. They sat and learned and they were disciplined. I, though, was the black sheep."

The grandfather continued. "In 1938 I picked up a book and read it from cover to cover. The book was called Mein Kampf. When I finished reading it, I ran home and told my father that we had to leave Poland immediately. I said, 'Tatty, this man means every word he says. If we stay here, we're going to die.' My father told me I was imagining things. He told me that if I spent more time learning and less time reading nonsense, I wouldn't speak this way. For weeks I begged him, ‘Please leave. Please save the family.’

"Nobody listened. Finally, I left by myself." The grandfather became emotional. "I kissed my parents goodbye. I kissed my brothers and sisters goodbye and then I crossed the ocean.

"After the war I learned that every single member of my family had been murdered." The room was silent. Then the grandfather pointed at the sixteen-year-old boy.

"Today I look around this room and I ask myself which one of my grandchildren resembles me. Who has my temperament? Who has my instincts? Who has my personality?” And then he pointed directly at the boy. "This one. This boy. He is a carbon copy of me."

And then he looked at the rest of the family and said words they would never forget: "Never belittle this child. Never dismiss this child. Because it is precisely because of a child like this that all of you are alive. Had I been exactly like my brothers, none of us would be here today."

Dr. Pelcovitz told me that there was absolute silence in the room. Nobody said a word. The session was over. Years later, the grandfather passed away and the boy entered business. Today he runs a tremendously successful company. His brothers work with him and he supports them generously.

When Dr. Pelcovitz finished telling me the story, I finally understood what Moshe Rabbeinu meant.

"V'higadeta l'vincha." It doesn't only mean tell the story to your child. It means teach every child that he has a story. Teach every child that he possesses infinite value. Teach every child that he carries a unique contribution that nobody else can make. Because the secret of the Jewish people has never been numbers.

The secret of the Jewish people has always been the infinite potential contained within every single Jewish soul.

Revolutionizing the World

That is the secret of how a tiny nation not only survived, but became one of the most influential forces in the history of civilization. Forget the Nobel Prizes for a moment. Let's talk about something else.

Who gave the world the idea of one G-d? Who gave the world the concept of conscience? Who taught humanity that history has a purpose? Who introduced the notion that every human being possesses infinite dignity because every human being is created in the image of G-d? Who taught that life has meaning? That justice matters? That hope matters?

As the great Irish writer Thomas Cahill pointed out in his remarkable book The Gifts of the Jews, so much of what Western civilization takes for granted today emerged from the spiritual revolution introduced by the Jewish people. How did this happen? How does a nation so small leave such a gigantic footprint upon history?

The Talmud gives an answer.

"Al tig'u b'meshichai—Do not touch My Mashiach (anointed ones)" (Divrei HaYamim I 16:22). Chazal explain: "Eilu tinokos shel beis rabban—These are the children studying Torah” (Shabbos 119b).

Now I want to offer another reading. Don't touch your inner Mashiach. Don't destroy the child inside of you. Because every child dreams of changing the world. Every child believes that anything is possible. Every child imagines that he can make a difference. The tragedy is not that children dream too much. The tragedy is that adults dream too little. As we grow older we become cynical and sophisticated and realistic. We sit back with folded arms and say: "Convince me. Show me."

The Gemara says: "Al tig'u b'meshichai—Don't kill that inner Mashiach.” Don't kill that inner idealism. Don't kill that inner belief that redemption is possible. Don't kill that inner conviction that your life matters and that you can leave the world better than you found it. And never, ever underestimate the potential hidden within a child.

That is why, when the Megillah comes to describe Mordechai, it says something fascinating.

Think about it. Mordechai was the Prime Minister of Persia. Prime Minister of Persia! At that time Persia was the superpower of the world. If a Jewish mother heard that her son became Prime Minister of Persia, she'd need smelling salts. Prime Minister! Can you imagine the nachas? But that's not how the Megillah defines him.

The Megillah says: "Gadol laYehudim—He was great among the Jews.” And even that isn't the final description. Then it says:

"Ratzui l'rov echav—Beloved by the majority of his brethren.” And even that isn't the climax. The crescendo comes in the final words.

"Dover shalom l'chol zaro—He spoke peace to all of his children.” Why is that the highest praise? Because it's relatively easy to become famous. It's relatively easy to become successful. But your children know who you really are. The people closest to you know whether the greatness is genuine. And if I were forced to identify one of the most important distinctions between greatness in the Jewish tradition and greatness as defined by the broader culture, it would be this:

The world judges a person by his public accomplishments. Judaism judges a person by the lives he touches most intimately.

Albert Einstein was chosen by Time Magazine as the Man of the Century. Not Churchill. Not Roosevelt. Albert Einstein. Yet his personal relationships were often painful and deeply troubled. Theodor Herzl transformed Jewish history and reignited the dream of a Jewish homeland. But his own family life was filled with heartbreak. Fritz Haber helped revolutionize modern agriculture and made it possible for billions of people to eat. Half the bread consumed in the modern world traces itself back to his discoveries. Yet his personal life ended in tragedy. Jean-Jacques Rousseau wrote some of the most influential works on education ever composed. But the man who lectured the world about children abandoned his own children.

Time and again we encounter intellectual giants who taught humanity how to live while failing to build healthy lives in their own homes. You can read about this at length in Paul Johnson's remarkable book Intellectuals. Many of these men transformed civilization, But you wouldn't necessarily trust them to babysit your child for an afternoon. That sounds harsh, but it's true. They taught the world philosophy, politics and economics, but they could not always create peace within their own homes.

And therefore the Megillah says that the true greatness of Mordechai was not merely that he influenced an empire. Not merely that he shaped history. Not merely that he became Prime Minister. His greatness was that the people closest to him experienced him as a source of peace. "Dover shalom l'chol zaro.” He spoke peace to all of his children.

The greatest legacy is not the speeches we deliver. It's not the positions we hold. It's not the fame we acquire. The greatest legacy is the people we raise, the people we inspire, and the peace we create in the lives of those entrusted to our care.

The Call from My Wife

I remember once speaking in Binyanei Haumah in Jerusalem. There were close to five thousand women in attendance. I finished the lecture and received a standing ovation. Now, I have to confess, it is not unpleasant for a man to receive a standing ovation from five thousand women. My mother never gave me a standing ovation. To be honest, my mother never sat down long enough to give me one. But there they were, clapping and cheering, and as I was leaving the hall, hundreds of people were following me. One woman says, "You changed my life." Another says, "Can I speak with you for a moment?" A third asks, "Can you stay another day in Israel?" A fourth says, "Could you come back next week? We'll buy you a first-class ticket."

At that very moment my cellphone rings. I look down and it's my wife. I answer. "Hi, Esti." And she says, "You know, it's very nice that you're in Israel inspiring the world, but the children here don't have a father." I said, "Esti, one second." A woman is saying, "Rabbi Jacobson, please come back every month." "One second." Another woman says, "You have no idea how much this lecture meant to me." "One second." And Esti continues. "I'm serious. This has to change. I didn't sign up to raise these children as a single parent while you're traveling around the world." I say, "Esti, I understand." Meanwhile somebody else is saying, "Your children must be so lucky to have you as a father." And I'm saying, "Absolutely. They adore me." One second. And Esti is saying, "It's not funny. The children need their father."

All around me people continued telling me how wonderful I am….

Now I have to tell you honestly, it would have been much more pleasant to tell Esti, "I'll call you back later," and continue basking in the admiration of hundreds of wonderful people. But deep down I knew something. I knew that this applause was a twenty-minute high. It's intoxicating and it's exciting. But eventually you sober up. And then you're left with reality. And reality is that there is a woman thousands of miles away who isn't applauding me because I gave a good lecture. She is dealing with me as a husband and as a father.

And if I don't understand where life really is, I will make the same mistake that so many successful people have made throughout history. Because it's easy to be a hero to strangers. It's much harder to be a hero to the people who know you best.

And that, says the Megillah, was Mordechai's greatness.

The Ibn Ezra writes that despite all of Mordechai's responsibilities, despite his influence, despite his public role, he never stopped investing in his own family. "Dover shalom l'chol zaro—He spoke peace to all of his children.”

Because in the office you're a hero. On the stage you're a hero. In public you're a hero. But your children know who you really are. Your children know not only your conscious self. They know your subconscious self. They know who you are when nobody is watching. They know who you are when the microphone is off. And when your children remain connected to you, when they trust you, when they love you, when they want a relationship with you, that is one of the greatest measures of success.

Karl Marx changed history, but he couldn't even bring himself to publicly acknowledge his own son. Many of the intellectual giants who transformed the modern world left behind shattered homes and wounded families. But when you look at the great figures of Jewish history—Rashi, Maimonides, the Noda B'Yehudah, the Vilna Gaon, the Baal Shem Tov, Rav Chaim Volozhiner, the Chasam Sofer—you encounter a very different model of greatness.

Not perfection, but a deep awareness that if you lose the people closest to you, you've lost something irreplaceable.

A nation that forgets its children dies quickly, but a nation that remains devoted to its children remains forever young.

The Story That Continues to Sing

With that, I want to conclude.

The story takes place in Dombrow, Poland. The year was 1942 and it was a short winter Friday. The Jews of the town had been marched out to a nearby forest. Thousands of men, women, and children sat on the frozen ground and two large pits had already been dug.

Nobody needed an explanation for what they were intended. The Germans had prepared them in the morning. The Jews understood exactly what was about to happen. As the sun began to set, one Jew stood up. He looked around at the faces of his brothers and sisters.

And he said, "We all know why these pits are here. We know what is about to happen." But they want more than our bodies. They want our souls. They want our faith. And I say we must not give them that victory. This will be the last time we welcome Shabbos on this earth. Let us welcome her with pride. Let us welcome her with dignity. Let us welcome her with joy."

And then he began to sing. "Shalom Aleichem malachei hashareis..." At first only a few voices joined, then dozens. Then hundreds. Then thousands.

Within moments the forest itself seemed to be singing. The Jews of Dombrow were no longer sitting in a forest. In their minds they were back home. They were sitting around their Shabbos tables, the candles were glowing, the challah was covered, the children were dressed in their Shabbos clothing, the father was singing, the mother was smiling and the family was together.

The Germans at first laughed. Then they became irritated. Then they became furious. They began shouting. "Silence! Stop singing!" But nobody stopped. The singing only became louder. The SS officers threatened them, but still they sang.

Then the shooting began. The bullets interrupted the melody. Two Jews managed to escape into the forest, join the partisans and survive the war.

Afterward they told the story.

They told of the holy Jews of Dombrow whose final Shalom Aleichem was interrupted by bullets only moments before Shabbos entered. And every time I hear that story I think to myself: seventy years later, we have been handed a sacred responsibility.

Those Jews never finished their song. The question is: who will continue it? Who will ensure that the melody of those kedoshim is never interrupted? Because today, for many of our brothers and sisters, the melody has been interrupted. Not by bullets. Not by persecution. But by indifference. By apathy. By forgetting.

And perhaps our greatest task is to make sure that the song continues, that the melody is passed on to our children and grandchildren, and that the chain remains unbroken. Because that has always been the secret of the Jewish people. One generation singing to the next.

The Privilege to Plant

They once asked a Jew, "What is the difference between ignorance and apathy?" He said, "I don't know, and I don't care."

Ignorance and apathy together can destroy a civilization. And that is why I am so moved, and why every one of us ought to be moved, to be part of this extraordinary, miraculous work.

Think about the word the Megillah uses for children. What is the word? "Zaro.""Dover shalom l'chol zaro." His children. His descendants.

Zaro literally means “seed.” And what is a seed? A seed is something very small that contains within itself infinite possibility. A seed doesn't look impressive. You can hold it in the palm of your hand and it seems insignificant. But hidden within that tiny seed is an entire future.

Forests emerge from seeds and generations emerge from seeds. Civilizations emerge from seeds. And that is why Mordechai's greatness was that he planted seeds. Not only in his own family, but in the Jewish people.

He planted seeds that would continue to grow long after he was gone. And that, in essence, is the mission of every generation. To plant seeds and to invest in the future. To believe in children before they believe in themselves. To recognize possibility before it becomes visible. To see greatness before greatness reveals itself.

Because as long as we remain loyal to the extraordinary story that we inherited, and as long as we make sure to pass that story on to our children and our grandchildren, our eternity is guaranteed. Not because we are numerous or powerful or wealthy. But because we are transmitters. We are links in a chain. We receive and we bequeath. We inherit and we pass forward.

Sometimes we imagine that our responsibility is only to our children. But it is much larger than that. It is also through our children. The Ponovezher Rav once observed that children without parents are called orphans, but parents without children create an orphaned generation.

Think about those words. Children without parents are tragic. But a generation of parents disconnected from their children is a tragedy of a different kind. Our children are yearning for something. They are yearning for a story. They are yearning for meaning. They are yearning for identity. And if we do not provide it, somebody else will.

Today the Jewish world stands at a crossroads. Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked that we are reading more and more about less and less. Oscar Wilde famously observed similarly that many people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

And isn't that the challenge of our generation? Technologically, we are advancing at breathtaking speed. The developments of the last fifty years dwarf much of what humanity accomplished over thousands of years. Every day new inventions emerge. Every day new technologies appear. Every day another barrier falls. But a wise politician once said: "I have great news. Yesterday we were standing at the edge of the abyss. Today we took a giant step forward."

The question is not whether we're moving. The question is whether we know where we're going. It's not enough to know the speed. You have to know the destination. Do I look only at the speedometer? Or do I also look at the road ahead?

And that is where Torah enters the picture. Because Torah doesn't merely tell us what to do. Torah tells us who we are. Torah doesn't merely tell us how to live. Torah tells us why we live. Torah gives direction to movement, purpose to progress and meaning to achievement.

Every Jewish child is a revolutionary. Every Jewish child contains worlds within worlds. And every Jewish child possesses extraordinary creativity.

But creativity requires an outlet. Think about Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. What would have happened if Mozart had grown up in a home without a piano? The genius would still have existed. The potential would still have been there. But where would it have gone? How would it have expressed itself? Perhaps it would have emerged destructively.  Perhaps it would have been lost altogether. Thank G-d there was a piano.

And for the Jewish people, Torah is our piano. Torah is the instrument through which the deepest creativity of the Jewish soul can find expression. Torah is the instrument through which a child discovers who he is. Torah is the instrument through which a young girl discovers her dignity, her beauty, and her purpose. Torah is the instrument through which greatness becomes reality. And therefore, being part of an organization that plants seeds, that nurtures children, that believes in young people before they believe in themselves, is not simply another communal initiative. It is one of the most sacred undertakings imaginable.

The last prophet of the Jewish people was Malachi. He is the final voice of prophecy. He lived at the beginning of the Second Temple era, and the very last verse of the very last chapter of the very last prophetic book ends with these remarkable words:

"V'heishiv lev avos al banim, v'lev banim al avosam—He shall return the hearts of the parents to the children, and the hearts of the children to their parents” (Malachi 4:6). What does that mean?

Rashi says something astonishing: "V'heishiv lev avos al banim al yedei banim—The hearts of the parents will be returned through the children.”

Through the children. Imagine that. The final message of prophecy to the Jewish people is not merely that parents will teach children. The final message is that children will inspire parents. Children will awaken parents. Children will bring their parents back. Two and a half thousand years ago, the last prophet foresaw a generation in which Jewish children would come home and say: "Mommy, why don't we have a Shabbos table? Tatty, why don't we go to shul? Why don't we have a mezuzah on our door? Why don't we learn Torah together?" Through the children, hearts would be reawakened. Through the children, families would reconnect. Through the children, the story would continue.

When I see that happening today, I realize that Malachi's prophecy is not ancient history. It is unfolding before our eyes.

What a privilege it is to participate in that process. What a privilege it is to plant those seeds. What a privilege it is to help ensure that the melody of our people continues unbroken from one generation to the next.

And so, may we continue planting seeds. May we continue nurturing souls. May we continue strengthening the bond between parents and children. And may we merit to see generations of Jewish children who know who they are, who know where they come from, and who know where they are going.