TorahAnytimes Newsletter Shelach

Mr. Charlie Harary
A People Redeemed
In the middle of Sefer Shemos, the Torah presents us with a profound directive: “Do not oppress the convert” (Shemos 22:20). Hashem warns us not to mistreat the ger, the convert, the outsider who chooses to join Klal Yisrael. And why? “Because you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Rashi explains further. We are enjoined to remember what it was like to be a stranger, vulnerable in a foreign place. So do not cause the convert pain, not even with words.
The commentaries raise an important question. Do we really need a reason not to oppress a ger? Isn’t that intuitive? Must the Torah persuade us not to mistreat the vulnerable? Isn’t decency obvious?
And yet, the Torah does offer a reason: because you were once there too. Why?
When someone new arrives in your town, someone who doesn’t quite “fit” yet—whether in background, in comfort with Yiddishkeit, in language, or in familiarity with customs—we often extend kindness from a place of sympathy. We feel for them.
But the Torah demands more. Hashem doesn’t just ask us to be nice. He demands empathy. Don't just feel for the ger; feel with them. Remember what it was like when you were new. Relive the insecurity, the displacement, the fear. Not just intellectually, but emotionally. Relationally.
To be a Jew is not just to help others, but to carry the burden with them. To step into their shoes, to lean your shoulder under their load. And this lesson is especially urgent in these times. We are not merely praying because missiles are flying and cities are under fire. We are praying because mothers are holding crying babies at 3:00 a.m., because six-year-olds are developing PTSD from sirens that won’t stop, because fathers are stranded in foreign countries with their hearts torn in two.
We are praying because brides have had weddings canceled, because young adults are cut off from parents, because elderly people are alone in apartments, trembling in fear. And it’s not “them.” It’s us.
This isn’t empathy from a distance. It’s not sympathy from safety. It’s oneness. When we say Tehillim, we don’t just pray for our brothers and sisters; we pray with them. Their fear, their confusion; all of it lives inside our hearts, too.
But there’s another layer:
Rav Moshe Sternbuch shlita writes that one of the spiritual dangers of being outside of Eretz Yisrael is that we focus too much on the war and too little on the meaning behind it.
We start thinking that wars are won by military might, strategy, intelligence and technology.
But, “While some trust in chariots, some in horses, we invoke the name of Hashem.”
This isn’t defeatism. It’s clarity.
The very first enemy to ever seek our destruction without mercy was Amalek. And how did we win? Moshe didn’t pick up a sword. He climbed a mountain and raised his hands in prayer. And the Mishnah asks: Did Moshe’s hands win the war? Of course not. But when the Jewish people looked upward and dedicated their hearts to their Father in Heaven—they prevailed. If not? They fell.
Missiles don’t win wars. Neither do tanks. Our wars were never meant to be fought with weapons. They were meant to be fought with clouds of glory, with splitting seas, with G-d’s revealed hand.
We are tired. Spiritually exhausted. But our tefillah is not “Hashem, hit harder.” Our prayer is: “Hashem, reveal Yourself.” We’re not just asking for a military victory. We’re asking for redemption. “Nation shall not lift sword against nation, and they shall no longer learn war.”
We want to stop surviving and start living, in a world where Your presence is known. We want more than survival; we want Geulah.
So when we daven, let our empathy be real. Let our eyes rise above the battlefield, beyond the politics, and fixate only on the Shechinah. Let us whisper with full hearts: “Avinu Shebashamayim—we’re done with the darkness. We don’t just want to win. We want You.” And maybe—just maybe—Hashem will say back: “You got it. You understand. You know it’s not your strength, it’s Mine. You want Me, not just My help.”
And then, with the sword of our lips, we will pierce the heavens and be zocheh for Hashem to reveal Himself fully. May it be soon, and may we merit to walk together to Eretz Yisrael—not as a nation at war—but as a people redeemed.
Rabbi Joey Haber
Where We Stand
This past week, I was abruptly asked to jump on a call and share a few words of Chizuk and Tehillim with a virtual audience. But as matters would have it, I had just left a wedding in New Jersey and was heading to a vort in Brooklyn when I received this message. I tried to pull over to find a quiet place, and ended up outside a Hampton Inn. I then tried going into the lobby, but there was music playing, so there I was—standing outside, speaking into the night air. And in a strange way, that image captured the exact experience of this time.
Life continues. Simchas still happen. Summer plans are being made. And yet, all around us, Klal Yisrael is living on edge. For over 18 months, Israel has been uneasy, and now we find ourselves at the brink.
All of us feel it. We feel caught in between. Where are we in this story? What is our role? What will the next few days bring? Or the next few weeks? What will become of the families living in the north and south? What will happen to a country and people we so dearly love? And in that swirl of uncertainty, there I was, standing on the side of the road outside a hotel somewhere in Staten Island. That wasn’t a coincidence, but a symbol. Because many of us are in that exact emotional space: moving, transitioning, searching for grounding.
And yet, it’s in moments like these that the Torah offers guidance.
In Parashat Vayetzei, there’s a seemingly ordinary Pasuk: “Vayifga ba’makom vayalen sham ki va hashemesh...” Yaakov Avinu stops for the night, the sun sets, he takes stones, places them around his head, and lies down to sleep. At first glance, it seems simple. But Rashi reveals that this moment was anything but. Yaakov established Tefillat Arvit there. The sun set miraculously, and the twelve stones fought over the merit to support his head until Hashem unified them into one. That stone would eventually become a mizbe’ach. And in that place of vulnerability and solitude, Yaakov had a dream—a ladder reaching heavenward, with angels ascending and descending. So why does the Pasuk sound so uneventful? Why is the narrative so understated, when something so transcendent was unfolding?
The answer lies in our purpose. We were not placed on this earth to merely find holiness in overtly sacred moments. We are meant to create holiness in the places where it doesn’t yet seem to exist. Some of us are married, others are not. Some are financially secure, others are struggling. Some are surrounded by family, others feel deeply alone. But wherever you find yourself—that makom is your assignment. Your mission is to build a ladder to heaven from there.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know what next week holds. Will this moment of tension escalate into something catastrophic? Or will it be the beginning of something beautiful—perhaps even geulah? I don’t have answers. But I do know that we’re standing together, and our responsibility is to take this sense of dislocation, of vulnerability, and turn it into something eternal. To do what Yaakov did. To take “nowhere” and turn it into “somewhere.” To turn an ordinary moment into a gateway to the Divine.
And how do we build that ladder? With prayer. With teshuvah. With charity. With letting go of resentment. With small shifts in behavior. Each act becomes another rung, and together they build a path upward. Today’s ladder might look different than tomorrow’s, but every step we take toward heaven matters. You might think: “I’m just standing in my kitchen,” or “I’m driving home from work,” or “Nothing meaningful is happening.” But that’s precisely where holiness begins. Not in the extraordinary, but in the mundane elevated by intention.
And yes, the world feels unstable. The U.S. government is uncertain. Anti-Semitism is rising. Israel’s security feels fragile. We’re worried about the economy, about the future of yeshivos, about our children. But none of this is outside of Hashem’s control. The world is perfectly organized.
Let me share a story to illustrate.
I once had the opportunity to visit a South African safari. We had the best guide in the region—no one understood animals like this man. We were in an open jeep, completely surrounded by wildlife. At one point, we came upon a herd of buffalo. The guide called them “the Black Death,” because if you stepped out of the jeep, they’d kill you. I saw one buffalo lying in mud, wounded, with a large open sore on its back. I remarked, “That poor buffalo.” The guide told me to wait. A moment later, a bird landed on the buffalo’s back and began pecking at the wound. I was horrified. But the guide explained: “That bird is cleaning the wound. It feeds off the dried blood, preventing infection. The bird is acting as a doctor.”
In the vastness of the wild, untouched by human civilization, with no clinics or veterinarians, Hashem sends healing from the sky. You don’t think that same Hashem can bring healing to Klal Yisrael? You don’t believe He can calm the storm, bring peace to the Middle East, protect our children, secure our future?
He absolutely can.
And so, here we are—exactly where we’re meant to be. Missiles are armed. A nation is in limbo. But we are not powerless. In fact, we are standing in the perfect position to build something eternal.
That evening, at 10:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, outside a random hotel, I knew one thing: I could choose to build a ladder to heaven from this very spot.
And so can you.
So let’s begin.
Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg
The Rainbow of Klal Yisrael
There was a young boy named Rafi, a child with special needs, who absolutely loved being in shul. He showed up early for davening, stayed late to help put siddurim back on the shelves, and offered assistance wherever he could. Though he couldn’t speak clearly, wasn’t always sure how to hold the siddur, and didn’t know the words, he showed up day in and day out with the consistency and devotion of a soldier. Years ago, before specialized schools were widely available, Rafi had no choice but to attend public school. And so, he made do.
As the winter season approached one year, Rafi’s school announced an upcoming holiday concert. Each student would go on stage in front of the entire school—faculty, students, and parents—and perform a seasonal song. Rafi was thrilled. He came home beaming and asked his parents if they could attend. They looked at their schedules and gently told him they’d be unable to come that day. Rafi, disappointed but undeterred, went to shul that evening and approached the rav, Rabbi Shapiro. “Rabbi,” he said with excitement and vulnerability, “my school is having a holiday concert and my parents can’t come. Can you come watch me?”
Rabbi Shapiro, who had a full plate—shiurim to deliver, speeches to prepare—replied, “Rafi, I’ll try. I’ll see what I can do.”
The day of the recital arrived, and Rabbi Shapiro, running late, rushed to the school. As he passed security, the guard looked up and asked, “Are you Rabbi Shapiro?” Surprised, he replied yes. “Good,” the guard said, “Rafi’s been asking for you.” In the front office, the secretary stopped him again. “You’re Rabbi Shapiro? Rafi’s been telling us all week that you’re coming. He’s very excited.”
Rabbi Shapiro walked into a packed auditorium. The room was filled with hundreds of students, teachers, and parents gathered to watch children perform one by one. Each child stepped up, sang a familiar X-Mas song, and received a round of applause. And then, it was Rafi’s turn.
Rafi couldn’t walk on stage by himself. He was escorted by teachers. He couldn’t sing with clarity. He couldn’t play the guitar he held. But he stood on that stage, strumming as best as he could, and with passion and pride, he sang:
"I had a little dreidel, I made it out of clay. And when it’s dry and ready, oh dreidel I shall play…"
He sang the song with a glowing smile, with joy, and with all the heart he had. When he finished, the room fell silent. No one knew the song. No one quite knew how to respond. And then, from the back of the auditorium, Rabbi Shapiro leapt to his feet and shouted: “Way to go, Rafi! That was amazing! Great job!” He clapped loudly, alone at first, until others joined in.
Now let’s pause and reflect for a moment. Did anyone else in that auditorium grasp the depth of a Jewish soul? Did Rafi fully understand the meaning of the dreidel? Did the audience know that the holiday they were celebrating is, at its core, a rejection of the Jewish people’s chosenness, while the dreidel represents our refusal to abandon who we are? No.
Did anyone there understand Rafi’s inner world—his fears, his pain, his doubts, his disabilities, his challenges? No.
But in the shamayim, in the heavens above, the angels understood. They listened to every word Rafi sang. They wept with emotion at his courage. They celebrated his performance, projecting it across the skies of Gan Eden for all the souls to witness.
People often make a painful mistake. They tell themselves: Who am I? I have dyslexia. I come from a broken home. I take fifteen pills a day. I was expelled from six high schools. I can’t sit through a shiur. I can’t focus on tefillah. I haven’t opened a siddur in a decade. I’m nothing.
That is a lie.
Every single soul in Klal Yisrael has a song. And the angels gather around to hear it. They don’t compare your voice to anyone else’s. They cry with you, they cheer with you, and they record your song in the heavenly archives. Because at the end of our lives, Hashem will not ask us how high we climbed up someone else’s mountain. He will only ask: Did you climb yours?
He won’t ask how far you got compared to your neighbor, your friend, your rebbe, your sibling.
He will ask, Did you climb the mountain I gave you? Did you carry the load I placed on your shoulders? Did you fight through the obstacles I, and only I, gave you?
That is the only measure that matters.
Every person in Klal Yisrael is a soldier in Hashem’s army, tasked with a mission only they can fulfill. Every person is a unique star, illuminating the night sky that our ancestor Avraham was shown. Every melamed, every shoemaker, every mikveh attendant, every eruv checker, every sukkah builder, every shochet, every gabbai, every baal tokeia, every fundraiser, every struggling soul, every triumphant one—each one of us plays an irreplaceable role in the vast mosaic of the Jewish people.
We are the rainbow of Klal Yisrael. Each color essential, each shade divine.
And we must live our lives with the awareness that in the eyes of Hashem, each of us is His only child. Because to Him—we are.
Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber
Piercing the Heavens
Recently, I walked into my afternoon sixth-grade class. As I did, a group of boys immediately called out, “Rebbe, we have to tell you what happened today!” I told them I was eager to hear.
“Rebbe,” they said, “we know what’s going on in Eretz Yisrael, and we decided that we wanted to do something. So during first recess and again during second recess, six of us sat together and split the entire Sefer Tehillim. We finished it—every single kapitel—together, as a group.”
I was stunned. I turned to them and asked, “What inspired you to do this?” And their answer was so pure, so real. They said, “Rebbe, the truth is, nothing specific. We just keep hearing people talk about what’s happening in Eretz Yisrael. And we’re kids. We don’t have money to give. We don’t have any special resources. There’s not much we can do to help. But we can daven.”
So they did. They took initiative. They chose to act. And together, they completed the entire Tehillim—during their own free time.
I told them how incredibly proud I was. But more than that, I felt that this moment carried a powerful message.
Children may sometimes feel small in the face of global events. But in shamayim, their voices echo with unparalleled strength. The koach haTefillah they possess is immeasurable. Their innocence, their sincerity, their emunah peshutah—it pierces through the heavens. And when children organize to say Tehillim, whether by dividing it among friends or over the course of the day with classmates, the impact is profound.
Imagine the spiritual force we could unleash if every classroom, every group of children, understood the power they hold. This isn't just a meaningful gesture; it’s a mighty contribution in the eyes of Hashem.
Let’s help our children recognize the greatness within them. Let’s show them that their tefillos matter. Because they do. More than we will ever fully comprehend.


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