Rabbi Zev Leff

The Era of Mashiach

The Rambam (Hilchos Melachim 12:1) makes a fascinating statement about what the world will look like when Mashiach comes. He writes: “We should not imagine that in the days of Mashiach something will cease from the natural order of the world, or that there will be some fundamental innovation in creation. Rather, ‘Olam k’minhago noheg—The world will continue to operate according to its natural order’” (Hilchos Melachim 12:1).

At first glance, this seems difficult to understand because there are Pesukim in Yeshayah that appear to describe a very different reality. The Navi tells us, “V’gar ze’ev im keves, v’namer im gedi yirbatz—The wolf will dwell with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the young goat” (Yeshayah 11:6). That certainly sounds as though the natural world itself will change. Yet the Rambam explains that these descriptions are a mashal v’chidah, metaphorical. The nations of the world, who throughout history have behaved toward Klal Yisrael like predatory animals, will finally live peacefully alongside the Jewish people. The wolf will not literally change its nature. Rather, the relationship between the nations and Klal Yisrael will change.

The Rambam bases this understanding on the Gemara’s statement in the name of Shmuel: “Ein bein olam hazeh limos haMashiach ela shibud malchiyos bilvad—The only difference between this world and the days of Mashiach is our subjugation to the kingdoms of the world” (Berachos 34b) In other words, Mashiach does not usher in an entirely different physical universe. It remains a natural world, but Klal Yisrael will no longer live under shibud malchiyos.

There is another Rambam, however, that helps us understand the significance of this change. In Hilchos Teshuvah (9:1), the Rambam addresses an obvious question. The Torah appears to promise physical reward for the performance of mitzvos: prosperity, peace, health, and material blessing. Yet we know that the ultimate reward for mitzvos is not in this world but in Olam Haba (Yerushalmi Peah 1:1). How, then, are we to understand these promises?

The Rambam explains that these blessings are not the actual reward for the mitzvos. Rather, Hashem is telling us that if we demonstrate that our true desire is to serve Him, He will provide us with conditions that enable us to serve Him more fully. If we use our lives for Torah and mitzvos, Hashem promises to remove the obstacles that interfere with that avodah and provide circumstances conducive to performing even more mitzvos. The material blessing is therefore not the payment; it is the opportunity. The true reward remains in Olam Haba.

The Rambam then explains that this is why the Nevi’im and the chachamim yearned for the days of Mashiach. They were not yearning for Mashiach so that the Jewish people could dominate the world, enjoy luxury, or possess greater physical pleasure. They yearned for Mashiach because shibud malchiyos would disappear. The pressures and impediments that interfere with Torah and mitzvos would be removed, allowing a person to devote himself to knowing Hashem and thereby merit greater life in Olam Haba.

I have always thought that shibud malchiyos can be understood on two levels. The first is the obvious one: physical subjugation. A Jew may live under a government that simply does not permit him to observe Torah and mitzvos. We saw this under Communist Russia, before the Iron Curtain fell. Jews could be prevented from learning Torah, observing Shabbos, performing a bris milah, or living openly as Jews. That is shibud malchiyos in its most literal sense.

But I believe there is another form of shibud malchiyos as well, one that can exist even when no government is physically preventing us from keeping the Torah. To understand it, we first need to understand something about the inner nature of a Jew.

The Gemara (Berachos 17a) expresses the idea that a Jew fundamentally wants to do the will of Hashem: “Retzoneinu la’asos retzonecha—Our true desire is to perform Your will.” Deep within every Jew is a point of holiness, a pintele Yid, that genuinely wants closeness to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. The Sfas Emes speaks of this inner point, and the Nefesh HaChaim similarly explains that there is a dimension of the neshama that cannot become defiled or spiritually damaged. No aveirah can destroy the essential kedushah and taharah of that deepest point of the Jewish soul. It remains pure.

That inner neshama is constantly crying out, “Retzoneinu la’asos retzonecha—I want to do Your will.” If that is true, however, we face an obvious question. Why don’t we always do the will of Hashem? Why do we sin? Why do we pursue things that contradict what, deep down, we actually want?

The Gemara answers: “Mi me’akev? Se’or sheba’isah v’shibud malchiyos—What prevents us? The ‘yeast in the dough,’ a reference to the yetzer hara, and the subjugation of the kingdoms.” There are two forces that muffle the cry of the neshama.

The first is se’or sheba’isah, the yetzer hara. A person has desires, appetites, and impulses that do not eliminate his true desire to serve Hashem, but they can cover it over. They superimpose other desires upon the deeper desire of the neshama. The person still wants Hashem, but there are other voices shouting more loudly.

This concept explains a famous Rambam elsewhere (Hilchos Gerushin 2:20). There are certain halachic situations in which a person is required to perform an act willingly, yet Beis Din may compel him until he says, “Rotzeh ani—I want to do it.” At first glance, this seems absurd. If you beat someone until he says, “I want to,” how can that possibly be considered voluntary?

The Rambam explains that when we are dealing with a Jew who fundamentally wishes to be part of Klal Yisrael and fulfill the mitzvos, his true inner will is already to do what the Torah requires. His yetzer hara and other external considerations are preventing that will from expressing itself. Beis Din is therefore not beating him in order to create a new desire. You cannot beat someone into genuinely wanting something. Rather, the coercion removes the forces preventing his authentic desire from emerging. Once those impediments are overcome, his declaration of “Rotzeh ani” expresses what he really wanted all along.

That is se’or sheba’isah. But then there is the second force: shibud malchiyos. As mentioned, one form of shibud malchiyos is when governments or societies physically prevent Jews from observing mitzvos. But there is another form as well: cultural subjugation.

There are certain drives that are naturally built into a human being. A person is born with an appetite for food. It is a normal human drive, and fundamentally it was created for good. Yet “Zeh l’umas zeh asah Elokim—Hashem created the possibility for these drives to be directed either toward holiness or toward the opposite” (Koheles 7:14). Otherwise, there could be no meaningful free choice.

A person can therefore take his appetite for food and use it for a mitzvah. He can eat matzah on Pesach, eat in the sukkah on Sukkos, make a beracha, enjoy Shabbos and Yom Tov, or simply eat l’shem Shamayim so that he has the strength to serve Hashem. The very same appetite, however, can be misused. A person can become a glutton or consume what the Torah forbids. The drive itself is natural; the question is what we do with it.

But there are other desires that are not natural at all. We were not born with them. They were taught to us by the culture around us. Where did that desire come from? It did not originate inside the person. It came from outside. That, I would suggest, is another form of shibud malchiyos: being subjugated to the values, fashions, priorities, and desires of the surrounding culture. Society tells us what is prestigious, what is beautiful, what is successful, what is worth pursuing, and what we supposedly need in order to be happy. Eventually, those external messages become so deeply embedded within us that we mistake them for our own desires.

When Mashiach comes, that form of shibud malchiyos will disappear as well. The entire world will recognize the Ribbono Shel Olam and humanity will understand what is genuinely valuable and what is genuinely worth pursuing. Those outside influences that distort our priorities will lose their power, and the yetzer hara will be minimized as well. The conditions of the world will therefore become ideal for a person to pursue his true purpose.

This is what the Rambam means when he explains why the chachamim yearned for Mashiach. They desired freedom from the kingdoms that prevented them from properly occupying themselves with Torah and mitzvos, so that they would have tranquility, increase in wisdom, and thereby merit the World to Come (Hilchos Teshuvah 9:2).

That is the ideal world. And now listen carefully to what the Rambam says next, because this is remarkable. We began with the Rambam telling us that the world of Mashiach will remain a natural world, as in “Olam k’minhago noheg.” The laws of nature do not disappear. Yet the Rambam also describes a world radically different from the one we presently know. In those days, he writes, knowledge, wisdom, and truth will become abundant. As the Navi says, “They will neither harm nor destroy on all My holy mountain, for the earth will be filled with knowledge of Hashem as the waters cover the sea” (Yeshayah 11:9). Elsewhere, the Navi speaks of Hashem removing the ruach hatumah, the spirit of impurity, from the land: “V’es ruach hatumah a’avir min ha’aretz” (Zechariah 13:2).

The Rambam then concludes Hilchos Melachim (12:4) by explaining what people will actually want in such a world. He first emphasizes what the purpose of Mashiach is not. “The Sages and Prophets did not yearn for the days of Mashiach so that the Jewish people could rule over the entire world.” We will no longer be subjugated to the nations, but dominating them is not our aspiration. “It is not so that we can exercise power over the nations or that the nations will exalt and honor us, or so we can eat, drink, and enjoy ourselves.”

What, then, were they waiting for? “They yearned for Mashiach so that they would be free to immerse themselves in Torah and its wisdom, without oppression or distraction, and thereby merit the World to Come.

And then comes the Rambam’s extraordinary final description. “In that time there will be neither famine nor war, neither jealousy nor competition. Why? Because goodness will be abundant, and all physical delicacies will be as readily available as dust.”

And what happens when human beings no longer spend their lives fighting over possessions, status, honor, wealth, power, and pleasure? What happens when the things that consume so much of our energy cease to dominate us? The Rambam tells us: “The occupation of the entire world will be nothing other than to know Hashem.”

The Rambam concludes: “Therefore, the Jewish people will become great in wisdom, understanding hidden matters and attaining knowledge of their Creator to the extent human beings are capable, as the Pasuk says, “For the earth will be filled with knowledge of Hashem as the waters cover the sea” (Yeshayah 11:9).

That is the Rambam’s picture of the world of Mashiach. On the one hand, olam k’minhago noheg. It is still a natural world. The world does not need to become supernatural in order to become unrecognizable. What changes is what occupies the human heart. There is no shibud malchiyos preventing us from serving Hashem, whether through physical oppression or through the cultural forces that tell us what we should value. The se’or sheba’isah, the yetzer hara that muffles our deepest aspirations, no longer dominates us in the same way. There is no famine, no war, no jealousy, and no competition. Material abundance exists, but precisely because it is abundant, it ceases to be the focus of life.

And when all of that noise disappears, what remains is what was there all along: “Retzoneinu la’asos retzonecha.” Deep down, what a Jew truly wants is Hashem. What we truly want is Torah. What we truly want is to fulfill the purpose for which our neshama was placed into this world.

Mashiach does not create that desire. Mashiach reveals it.

Understanding the World of Mashiach: Returning to the Natural Order

There is another important component to all the above.

Imagine an institution established for people who are unable to walk. In order to avoid embarrassing the residents, the institution adopts an unusual policy: nobody is permitted to walk inside the building. Every person who enters must use a wheelchair. The doctors, nurses, kitchen staff, administrators, and even visitors must sit in wheelchairs and move about just as the residents do. The purpose is to ensure that those who cannot walk will never feel different or inferior.

Now imagine a child born to two parents living in this institution, both of whom suffer from a genetic condition that prevents them from walking. Their child is born with the same condition and spends his entire life within the institution. From the moment he opens his eyes, everyone he sees moves about in a wheelchair. His parents use wheelchairs, the doctors use wheelchairs, the nurses use wheelchairs, and every visitor who enters the building does the same. For nineteen years, this is the only reality he has ever known.

One day, the young man wheels himself outside the institution for the first time. Suddenly, he encounters someone walking upright on two legs. Imagine his reaction. He is astonished. He has never seen anything like it. To him, it appears miraculous. How can a person move without a wheelchair? How can someone stand upright and walk from one place to another without assistance? Surely, he thinks, this must be something supernatural.

But is walking supernatural? Of course not. Walking is perfectly natural. The young man has simply spent his entire life in an abnormal environment. Because he has never experienced anything else, he has mistaken abnormality for normality. When he finally encounters the natural world, it appears miraculous.

That, I believe, is precisely our situation.

We have become so accustomed to living in an abnormal world that we assume its abnormalities are natural. We think sickness is normal, war is normal, jealousy is normal, competition is normal, and the constant struggle against forces that distance us from Hashem is normal. But as the Rambam makes clear, none of this represents the world as it was originally intended to be.

The natural world is the world the Rambam describes at the end of Hilchos Melachim. That is the world as it ought to be. We were meant to live in Gan Eden. The world was originally created in a state of harmony, holiness, and closeness to Hashem. But then came the sin of Adam and Chavah, followed by the generations of spiritual decline, the Mabul, the Dor Haflagah, and the subsequent tragedies and failures of human history, culminating in the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash and our long exile. Each of these events contributed to the world becoming increasingly distant from its original condition.

What we now regard as normal is, in reality, a world that has been profoundly altered from the state in which it was meant to exist. We have lived in this condition for so long that we can no longer imagine anything different. Consequently, when the Rambam describes a world without famine, war, jealousy, and competition, we regard it as supernatural. But it is not supernatural at all. It is simply the restoration of normality.

This is consistent with the Rambam's description of Mashiach at the beginning of his discussion of Moshiach in Hilchos Melachim. The Rambam explains that Melech HaMashiach will restore the kingdom of David to its original sovereignty, rebuild the Beis Hamikdash, gather the dispersed Jewish people, and reinstate the laws of the Torah as they were originally observed. The Sanhedrin will function again, korbanos will be offered, and the institutions of Jewish life will return to their proper place (Hilchos Melachim 11:1).

Notice that none of these things is fundamentally new. We once had a Beis Hamikdash, we once had a Sanhedrin, and we once offered korbanos. Mashiach is not introducing an entirely new religious system. He is restoring what existed before and what was always meant to exist.

The same principle applies to the world itself. Mashiach will not necessarily transform the natural world into a supernatural one. Rather, he will restore the world to its intended condition. What appears miraculous to us is simply the world returning to the way it was supposed to be all along. That is the meaning of “Olam k’minhago noheg.” The world will function according to its true natural order, even if that order seems extraordinary to people who have become accustomed to living in an abnormal reality.

With this understanding, we can now address another fundamental question. When will Mashiach come?

The Time Of His Arrival

Chazal teach that there are two possible ways in which the redemption can arrive, expressed through the words “B’itah” and “Achishenah.” The source is the Pasuk in Yeshayah: “Ani Hashem b’itah achishenah—I am Hashem; in its time I will hasten it” (Yeshayah 60:22). The Gemara explains, “Zachu, achishenah; lo zachu, b’itah—If the Jewish people merit redemption, Hashem will hasten it; if they do not, it will arrive at its appointed time (Sanhedrin 98a).

To understand these two possibilities, we must first understand why Hakadosh Baruch Hu created the world in the first place.

The ultimate purpose of creation is Olam Haba. Based upon what Chazal have revealed to us, the Ribbono Shel Olam, Who is the ultimate source of goodness, desired to bestow goodness upon His creations. But the greatest goodness imaginable is not physical pleasure, wealth, honor, or power. The ultimate goodness is closeness to Hashem Himself. There is no greater joy or delight than the experience of a neshama connecting to its Creator and basking in the radiance of His presence (see Mesillas Yesharim, Ch. 1).

In that sense, one might ask why Hashem did not simply create neshamos and immediately place them in Olam Haba. If the purpose was to bestow the greatest possible pleasure, why introduce this complicated physical world, with all its struggles, temptations, suffering, and challenges? Why not simply give the neshamos the ultimate reward from the very beginning?

There are two important considerations.

First, something that is received without being earned is not appreciated in the same way as something acquired through effort. A person who receives an extraordinary gift may enjoy it, but that enjoyment is fundamentally different from the satisfaction of having worked for something, struggled to attain it, and made it his own. The greatest pleasure is not merely receiving goodness but knowing that one has earned it.

Second, if we are to experience the greatest possible closeness to Hashem, we must, to whatever extent a created being can, resemble Him. Hashem does not receive anything from anyone. He is complete in Himself and is the source of everything. If our eternal pleasure were simply handed to us without any participation on our part, we would remain entirely passive recipients. But by earning our portion in Olam Haba, we become, in a certain sense, the owners of what we receive. It becomes intrinsically connected to who we are.

For these reasons, Hakadosh Baruch Hu created this world as the place in which we earn our eternal reward. He placed our neshamos into a physical reality where His presence is concealed, where we experience distance from Him, and where we must choose to develop a relationship with Him. In effect, Hashem tells us, “Rather than simply giving you a relationship with Me, I am giving you the opportunity to create that relationship through your own choices.”

And when a person develops that relationship through Torah, mitzvos, struggle, and free choice, he has done more than merely earn a reward. He has participated in creating the very closeness to Hashem that he will ultimately experience in Olam Haba.

This world, therefore, is not the ultimate destination. It is the place of preparation and acquisition. Olam Haba is the ultimate goal. Our present existence is the arena in which we work toward that goal.

But the Ribbono Shel Olam established a limit to this period of preparation. The world cannot remain indefinitely in its present condition. At a certain point, the period of earning must give way to the period in which the purpose of creation reaches its fulfillment. The transition begins with the days of Mashiach, which serve, in a sense, as a bridge between our present world and the ultimate World to Come. Even during the days of Mashiach, a person will continue to grow spiritually and acquire merit, but the circumstances will be radically different because the obstacles that presently interfere with serving Hashem will have been removed.

Hashem established an appointed time for that transition. That time is called b’itah. It is the ultimate deadline, so to speak, by which the process of redemption must occur. When that moment arrives, the redemption will take place whether or not Klal Yisrael has independently reached the level that would otherwise merit it. One way or another, Hashem will arrange events so that His purpose for creation is fulfilled.

And that appointed time is known only to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. It has not been revealed to human beings.

At this point, someone might ask, “But don’t Chazal (Sanhedrin 97a) tell us that the world will exist for six thousand years? Doesn't that establish the deadline?”

The answer is that the matter is not nearly as straightforward as it might appear. First, we must understand precisely what those six thousand years mean, when the calculation begins, when it ends, and what is included within it. Even when the Torah gives a seemingly definite period, the precise calculation may remain concealed.

Consider the exile in Mitzrayim. Hashem told Avraham Avinu that his descendants would experience a period of four hundred years of exile and affliction. Yet the actual period of slavery in Egypt was not four hundred years. The calculation involved a broader historical framework, beginning long before the descent into Egypt (see Rashi, Shemos 12:40). The period was fixed, but its precise starting point and interpretation were not obvious to those living through it.

The same consideration may apply to the six thousand years. Even if one accepts that framework, it does not necessarily follow that we can identify the exact moment of redemption by simply counting years on a calendar.

Moreover, the Rambam in Moreh Nevuchim (Part II, Chapter 29) discusses the statement that the world will exist for six thousand years and treats that view as an individual opinion rather than something that must necessarily determine our understanding of reality. One cannot simply assume that the six-thousand-year calculation provides a definitive, universally established date for the coming of Mashiach.

But there is another possibility: Achishenah.

If Klal Yisrael merits it, Mashiach can come before the appointed time. He can come earlier than the ultimate deadline. Indeed, Mashiach can come at any moment. He can come two minutes from now, or even one minute from now, if the necessary spiritual conditions have been fulfilled.

What does it mean that we must merit redemption? It means that Klal Yisrael, as a collective people, must attain whatever level of mitzvos, zechuyos, teshuvah, or spiritual completion is necessary for the world to reach that stage. We do not know the precise measure. But we do know that our actions matter, and that the redemption can be hastened through the spiritual achievements of the Jewish people.

This is the distinction between b’itah and achishenah. B’itah refers to the appointed time established by Hashem, which will arrive regardless of our merits. Achishenah refers to the possibility of bringing the redemption earlier through our own spiritual accomplishments.

Along these lines, there may also be particular periods throughout history that are especially conducive to redemption. At such times, the spiritual conditions may be more favorable, and perhaps fewer additional zechuyos are needed for Mashiach to come. Throughout Jewish history, there have been occasions when great Torah scholars and mekubalim believed that a particular period presented an extraordinary opportunity for redemption.

One example mentioned in this connection is the period of Shabtai Tzvi. Certain mekubalim associated that era with the possibility of redemption and spoke of the year Tav-Ches—5408—as an especially significant time. Unfortunately, the tragic events surrounding Shabtai Tzvi and the false messianic movement that developed around him brought enormous spiritual devastation instead.

There have been other periods throughout history when similar expectations arose. But ultimately, because the coming of Mashiach through achishenah depends upon human free choice, no human being can know with certainty when those conditions will be fulfilled. We cannot predict when Klal Yisrael will make the choices necessary to bring the world to its completion.

And as for b’itah, the final appointed time, that too remains concealed by the will of Hashem.

There is a profound reason for this concealment. Imagine that Jews living a thousand years ago had known with certainty that Mashiach would not come for another thousand years. What would have happened to their hope? How could they have genuinely lived with the expectation that Mashiach might arrive at any moment? The concealment of the date preserves the possibility of tzipiyah l’yeshuah, the constant anticipation of redemption.

Calculating the Redemption

This brings us to a striking statement of the Gemara: “Tipach atzman shel mechashevei kitzin—May the spirit of those who calculate the end be extinguished (Sanhedrin 97b). Chazal speak very sharply against those who attempt to calculate precisely when Mashiach will come. Such calculations can undermine faith and hope, particularly when the predicted dates pass without redemption.

Yet here we encounter an apparent contradiction. The Rambam (Iggeret Teiman) himself discusses calculations concerning the possible time of redemption. Other great Torah authorities, including Rav Saadiah Gaon (Emunos V'Deos, Maamar 8) and the Rif, are also mentioned in connection with calculations of the keitz.

The Malbim also made calculations concerning the time of Mashiach, and some of the dates associated with his calculations extended into the 1970s. Those dates have already passed. This raises an obvious question. How could the Malbim engage in such calculations when the Gemara explicitly warns against calculating the time of redemption? The Rambam himself cites this warning. How, then, could the Malbim, along with other great Torah authorities, undertake precisely what Chazal appear to prohibit?

The Malbim offered a beautiful mashal to explain the matter.

Imagine a father traveling with his young son across Europe, journeying from one country to another. In those days, such a trip could take six months. They set out in their horse-drawn wagon, and after approximately fifteen minutes, the little boy turns to his father and asks, “Are we almost there?” Anyone who has ever traveled with children knows how realistic that question is. The father becomes upset and tells him firmly, “Do not ask me that question again.”

Five and a half months pass. They have traveled through cities, villages, and countryside, and their destination is finally approaching. At that point, the father leans forward, taps the wagon driver on the shoulder, and asks, “Are we almost there?” The little boy is astonished. “Father,” he protests, “when I asked that very same question, you became angry and told me never to ask it again. Now you are asking exactly what I asked! How can that be?”

The father explains, “There is a tremendous difference between your question and mine. You asked whether we were almost there fifteen minutes after beginning a six-month journey. Had I told you that we still had nearly six months to travel, you would have become discouraged. You would have found the journey unbearable. But now, after five and a half months, we really are approaching our destination. Now it makes sense to ask whether we are almost there.”

The Malbim explained that the same distinction applies to calculating the time of Mashiach. In the days of Chazal, the appointed time of redemption was still very distant. Had people attempted to calculate the end and discovered how far away it was, they might have lost hope. Therefore, Chazal strongly discouraged such calculations. But in later generations, when the Jewish people had already endured so much of the long exile, the situation was different. Perhaps now, when we are approaching the end of the journey, there is room to ask whether we are almost there.

Of course, one cannot simply tell a beautiful story and use it to overturn a halachah. A mashal does not supersede the Gemara. The point, however, is that the prohibition against calculating the end must be understood in light of its purpose. The Gemara warns, “Tipach atzman shel mechashevei kitzin—May the spirit of those who calculate the end be extinguished (Sanhedrin 97b). The concern is that such calculations can become spiritually destructive. People may place enormous hope in a particular date, convince themselves that Mashiach will certainly arrive at that time, and then experience devastating disappointment when the date passes.

History has shown how dangerous this can be. Consider the tragedy surrounding Shabtai Tzvi. Many Jews became convinced that the redemption was imminent. They invested their hopes, aspirations, and religious expectations in what they believed would be the arrival of Mashiach. When those expectations collapsed, the consequences were catastrophic. Some people became deeply disillusioned, and others abandoned their previous religious commitments. What had begun as an expression of hope ultimately became a source of spiritual devastation.

That is the danger Chazal were addressing. Calculating the end can undermine the very faith and anticipation it is supposed to strengthen. But the Rambam, Rav Saadiah Gaon, the Rif, and other great Torah authorities who discussed possible times of redemption understood the spiritual condition of their respective generations. They recognized that, in certain circumstances, the greater danger was not excessive anticipation but the loss of hope altogether. People were becoming discouraged by the length and suffering of the exile. Under those conditions, discussing the possibility that redemption might be approaching could strengthen their faith and renew their expectation of Mashiach.

The essential distinction, then, is whether the calculation serves to strengthen hope or threatens to destroy it. When people are likely to interpret a proposed date as an absolute guarantee, and then lose faith when it passes, the calculation is counterproductive. But when a generation is becoming overwhelmed by despair, an indication that redemption may be approaching can sometimes restore hope and inspire renewed commitment.

This leads to another important question. Does the fact that the dates proposed by these great scholars have passed necessarily mean that their calculations were entirely mistaken? Not necessarily. As we discussed earlier, there may be particular periods throughout history that are especially conducive to redemption. A calculation might identify a time of extraordinary spiritual potential without necessarily identifying the moment when Mashiach will actually arrive.

Consider the redemption from Mitzrayim. Hashem had already told Avraham Avinu at the Bris Bein HaBesarim that his descendants would experience a period of four hundred years before their redemption. Yet the process of redemption did not begin only on the day the Jewish people left Egypt. Many events occurred beforehand that were essential to bringing about the eventual geulah.

Imagine that someone had lived eighty years before Yetzias Mitzrayim and announced, “I see that something extraordinary connected to the redemption is going to happen this year.” Suppose he had been referring to the birth of Moshe Rabbeinu. Would his prediction have been wrong? Certainly not. Something of tremendous significance to the redemption did occur. Moshe Rabbeinu, the individual who would eventually lead Klal Yisrael out of Egypt, was born. But the actual redemption did not take place until eighty years later.

The person might have correctly identified an important moment in the unfolding process of geulah without identifying the final moment of redemption itself. The distinction is crucial. The birth of Moshe Rabbeinu was not Yetzias Mitzrayim, but without his birth, the events leading to Yetzias Mitzrayim could not have unfolded as they did.

Perhaps something similar applies to certain calculations of the keitz. A great Torah scholar may identify a year that possesses particular significance in the process of redemption. That year may be especially conducive to Mashiach's arrival, but the necessary spiritual conditions may not be fulfilled. Alternatively, an event may occur during that period that will eventually prove essential to the final redemption, even though its significance is not yet apparent.

We are living in the middle of history, and therefore we cannot see the entire picture. Only when Mashiach comes and the process reaches its completion may we be able to look backward and understand how the various events were connected. We may discover that something happened in a particular year, which led to another development, which eventually brought about a war, a political transformation, or some other historical event that became part of the chain leading to redemption. At the time, nobody recognized its significance. Only when the puzzle is complete will we understand where each piece belonged.

Consequently, the fact that a particular date passed without Mashiach's arrival does not necessarily prove that nothing spiritually significant occurred. It may have been a time especially suited for redemption, or a moment when an important stage in the process began. The ultimate meaning of such events may remain hidden until the entire process unfolds.

Someone might ask how these great Torah scholars arrived at their calculations in the first place. Were they based upon ruach hakodesh, Kabbalah, or some other form of spiritual revelation? In many cases, the calculations were based primarily upon Pesukim in Sefer Daniel. Daniel contains several passages that allude to the time of the end, including descriptions of periods and numerical calculations that have been interpreted in different ways.

At the same time, Daniel himself is told, “Ki sesumim vachasumim hadevarim ad eis keitz—The matters are concealed and sealed until the time of the end” (Daniel 12:9). In other words, Daniel was given hints concerning the future redemption, but the complete meaning of those hints was not revealed. The Pesukim contain indications, yet there are different ways of understanding their language, numbers, and historical starting points. This explains why different Torah authorities arrived at different calculations.

Ultimately, however, the practical conclusion remains unchanged. Mashiach can come at any moment through achishenah, if Klal Yisrael merits the redemption. Alternatively, he will come at the appointed time of b'itah, a time known only to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. We do not know when that moment will arrive, and therefore we are obligated to live with the anticipation of redemption.

The Meaning of Tzipisa L’Yeshuah

This brings us to one of the fundamental questions a person will be asked in the Heavenly Court. The Gemara (Shabbos 31a) teaches that among the questions posed to a person after his lifetime is “Tzipisa l'yeshuah—Did you anticipate the redemption?”

What exactly does that mean? Does it mean that a person must believe Mashiach will arrive within the next few seconds? That cannot be the practical meaning. If someone genuinely believed with absolute certainty that Mashiach would arrive in the next moment, why would he go to work? Why would he build a house, establish a business, or make ordinary plans for the future? He would simply sit and wait for Mashiach.

Clearly, tzipisa l'yeshuah does not mean that we must be certain Mashiach will arrive immediately. Rather, we must believe that his arrival is genuinely possible at any moment. Mashiach may come in the next second, but he may also not come in the next second. We therefore continue living normal, responsible lives while recognizing that the world as we know it could be transformed at any moment.

We work, build homes, raise families, and fulfill our obligations. But we do so with the awareness that Mashiach can come at any time. We do not know when the redemption will occur, but we recognize that its arrival is always a real possibility.

Yet I would like to suggest that tzipisa l'yeshuah contains a much deeper and more practical obligation.

Consider the meaning of the word tzipisa. A tzofeh is a watchman or lookout. In ancient times, a watchman would stand at an elevated observation point, looking into the distance to determine whether an enemy was approaching the city. His responsibility was not merely to observe the future. He had to anticipate what might happen so that the people could prepare for it in the present.

If the watchman saw an approaching army, he would sound the alarm. The inhabitants would then begin preparing their defenses, securing their gates, and taking whatever precautions were necessary. The watchman's ability to look ahead was valuable precisely because it enabled people to act now.

That, I believe, is the deeper meaning of tzipisa l'yeshuah. The question is not simply whether I believe Mashiach may come. The question is what I am doing now to prepare myself for the world that Mashiach will bring.

If I genuinely anticipate the redemption, then the way I live today should reflect the kind of world I am waiting for tomorrow. If Mashiach were to arrive in the next moment, would the life I am currently leading be compatible with the world I claim to desire? Am I preparing myself for that reality, or am I merely speaking about it?

Consider what the Rambam tells us about the days of Mashiach. He writes that the occupation of the entire world will be to know Hashem: “People will devote themselves to Torah, wisdom, and the knowledge of their Creator” (Hilchos Melachim 12:5). If that is the world I am eagerly awaiting, why am I not trying to live that way now, to whatever extent my present circumstances permit?

Of course, I cannot devote every moment of my day to learning Torah. I have responsibilities, obligations, and practical needs. But if I genuinely yearn for a world in which knowing Hashem is humanity's greatest pursuit, shouldn't I be trying to make Torah and the knowledge of Hashem a greater priority in my life today? Shouldn't I be organizing my schedule, my aspirations, and my values around that ideal as much as possible?

The Rambam also tells us that in the days of Mashiach there will be no jealousy and no competition: “V'lo kinah v'sacharus.” If I truly look forward to such a world, why am I creating jealousy and competition in my present life? Why am I so concerned with what other people possess, how much honor they receive, or whether they are more successful than I am? Why am I investing so much emotional energy in precisely those things that I claim will disappear in the ideal world?

If I am genuinely anticipating a world without jealousy, I should begin working to eliminate jealousy from my own heart. If I am looking forward to a world without destructive competition, I should examine the competition I create in my relationships and daily activities. If I am waiting for a world in which Torah and the knowledge of Hashem occupy the center of human existence, then I should begin making those things central to my life now.

Naturally, I may not be able to live entirely according to those ideals. The world is not yet the world of Mashiach, and I am not yet the person I ought to be. But that does not exempt me from trying. At the very least, I should be moving in that direction. I should be doing something today that prepares me for the world I hope to see tomorrow.

That is the practical meaning of tzipisa l'yeshuah. It is not merely an intellectual belief about the future or an emotional longing for redemption. It is a way of living in the present. The anticipation of Mashiach should influence my priorities, my choices, my relationships, and my daily conduct.

When the Heavenly Court asks, “Tzipisa l'yeshuah?” the question is not simply, “Did you believe Mashiach would come?” It is also, “Did you live like someone who was waiting for Mashiach? Did your life reflect the world you claimed to anticipate? Did you prepare yourself for the redemption by trying to embody its values?”

That is what makes tzipisa l'yeshuah a matter of halachah l'maaseh. It is not simply about what we believe will happen someday. It is about how we live today in light of what we believe will happen someday. Our anticipation of the future must find expression in our conduct in the present.

We cannot bring the entire world to the perfection of Yemos HaMashiach through our individual efforts. But we can begin creating something of that world within ourselves. We can learn more Torah, deepen our relationship with Hashem, diminish jealousy, overcome unnecessary competition, and bring our lives closer to the ideals that will characterize the time of redemption.

And if we truly believe that Mashiach can come at any moment, then we should strive to live in such a way that, whenever he arrives, we will already have begun preparing ourselves for the world he will bring.

That, I believe, is the essence of tzipisa l'yeshuah.

Preparing the World for Mashiach

There is, however, an important distinction that must be made. Anticipating Mashiach is not the same as attempting to force Mashiach to come. We have an obligation to look forward to the redemption, but that does not mean we should attempt to pressure the Ribbono Shel Olam into bringing it before the world is ready.

Why is that? Because until Klal Yisrael is prepared for the redemption, or until Hashem Himself brings the world to the necessary state of readiness, the arrival of Mashiach may not be an entirely positive experience for everyone. A person who is spiritually unprepared for the world of Mashiach may find that new reality extremely difficult. Indeed, for those who have not developed the proper values and priorities, such a transformation could be disastrous.

This is connected to the concept of “Shelo yidchaku es hakeitz—That the Jewish people should not force the end.” Chazal speak of this principle in connection with the oaths discussed in Kesubos (111a). We are supposed to yearn for Mashiach, anticipate his arrival, and prepare ourselves for redemption. But we are not supposed to attempt to compel the redemption before its proper time.

That distinction applies even to our tefillos. There is certainly a mitzvah to daven for Mashiach. We ask for the restoration of Malchus Beis David, the Davidic dynasty, in Shemoneh Esrei, and we express our longing for the rebuilding of Yerushalayim and the Beis Hamikdash. We have Tikkun Chatzos, through which we mourn the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash and express our yearning for its restoration. These are established expressions of our desire for redemption.

But there is a difference between davening for Mashiach in the manner prescribed by Chazal and introducing extraordinary practices intended to force Hashem, so to speak, to bring the redemption immediately. How much is too much? I cannot give you a precise measurement. Certainly, davening Shemoneh Esrei with proper kavanah is not too much. Saying Tikkun Chatzos is not too much. These are practices established within our mesorah. But undertaking additional measures with the intention of pressuring the Ribbono Shel Olam to bring Mashiach before the world is ready is another matter entirely.

Someone might ask whether my earlier explanation of tzipisa l'yeshuah—living now according to the values of the world of Mashiach—is itself a way of attempting to hasten the redemption. The answer is that the purpose is different. We are not trying to force Mashiach to come. Rather, we are demonstrating that we genuinely desire the world he will bring.

If I claim that I am looking forward to a world in which the primary occupation of humanity will be learning Torah and knowing Hashem, but I have no interest in learning Torah today, what exactly am I looking forward to? If Torah does not occupy an important place in my present life, why should anyone believe that I sincerely desire a world in which Torah will occupy the central place in everyone's life?

The same is true of jealousy, competition, and all the other qualities that the Rambam tells us will disappear in the days of Mashiach. My conduct should demonstrate that the world of Mashiach is something I truly want. Otherwise, my anticipation remains little more than words. That, I believe, is the practical meaning of tzipisa l'yeshuah. It is not an attempt to force the redemption. It is an effort to become the kind of person who genuinely belongs in the world for which we are waiting.

I would like to conclude with the following thought.

The Netziv, in his commentary Ha'amek Davar, offers a remarkable explanation of the episode of Mei Merivah, when Moshe Rabbeinu struck the rock instead of speaking to it (Bamidbar 20:1–13). Earlier in the journey through the Midbar, Hashem had instructed Moshe to strike a rock, and water miraculously emerged. Yet approximately forty years later, when the Jewish people once again needed water, Hashem instructed Moshe to speak to the rock. Instead, Moshe struck it.

What changed? Why was striking the rock appropriate the first time but not the second?

The Netziv explains that Hakadosh Baruch Hu was preparing Klal Yisrael for an entirely different form of Divine providence. Throughout their years in the Midbar, the Jewish people lived under a hanhagah nissis, a miraculous mode of existence. Their food descended from Heaven in the form of the manna. Their water came from a rock. Their daily survival was sustained through open miracles. This was not derech ha’teva, at least not the natural order with which we are familiar.

But when Klal Yisrael entered Eretz Yisrael, everything would change. They would no longer receive bread directly from Heaven. They would have to plant fields, cultivate crops, harvest grain, and produce their own food. Water would come through rain, and their livelihood would depend upon the agricultural cycle. Their lives would operate within the framework of derech ha’teva.

Yet this natural order would itself contain a miraculous dimension. Whether rain fell would not ultimately depend merely upon atmospheric pressure, weather systems, or meteorological conditions. The Torah tells us that rainfall in Eretz Yisrael is connected to the spiritual conduct of Klal Yisrael. If the Jewish people fulfill the mitzvos, Hashem promises rain in its proper time. If they turn away from Him, the heavens may be withheld.

In other words, the miracle would no longer necessarily appear as water emerging from a rock. Instead, it would appear through the ordinary processes of nature, with those processes responding to the spiritual condition of the Jewish people. It would be a miracle expressed through derech ha’teva.

The Netziv explains that before Hashem introduces a new hanhagah into the world, He prepares His people for it. He gives them an opportunity to experience something of the new reality before they enter it fully. It is, in a sense, a preliminary test; a preparation for the form of Divine providence they are about to encounter.

That is what was supposed to happen at Mei Merivah. When Klal Yisrael first entered the Midbar, Moshe was instructed to strike the rock. Water emerging from a rock through a physical action was an open miracle, consistent with the miraculous existence of the Midbar. But forty years later, as the Jewish people prepared to enter Eretz Yisrael, Hashem wanted to introduce them to the hanhagah that would characterize their future lives.

What would happen in Eretz Yisrael if there were a drought? If the rain failed to come, the Jewish people would have to examine their spiritual condition. They would gather together, fast, daven, engage in teshuvah, and turn to Hashem. The response to a lack of rain would not merely be agricultural or meteorological. It would be spiritual.

That is why Moshe was instructed to speak to the rock. According to the Netziv, this was not simply a matter of standing before the rock and saying, “Rock, give us water.” Rather, Moshe was meant to engage in words of Torah and tefillah in the presence of the rock. Through that spiritual avodah, water would emerge.

It was not yet exactly the system that would prevail in Eretz Yisrael. The water would still come from a rock rather than from rain. But the means through which the water would be brought forth would resemble the future hanhagah. Instead of striking the rock, Moshe would employ Torah and tefillah, thereby demonstrating that physical blessing could be brought about through spiritual conduct.

Mei Merivah was therefore intended to serve as a bridge between two forms of Divine providence: the open miracles of the Midbar and the miracles concealed within nature that would characterize life in Eretz Yisrael.

Based upon this idea of the Netziv, I would like to suggest something further.

We have already discussed how the world will change when Mashiach comes. The Rambam tells us that the Jewish people will no longer be subject to shibud malchiyos. Klal Yisrael will be gathered together in Eretz Yisrael. The Beis Hamikdash will be rebuilt. Knowledge of Hashem will become widespread, and the world will experience conditions radically different from those to which we have become accustomed.

If Hashem prepares His people before introducing a new hanhagah, as the Netziv explains, it stands to reason that He may also be preparing us for the world of Mashiach. Perhaps the historical developments we have witnessed are not merely isolated events. They are stages through which Hashem is giving us a taste of the world that is yet to come, while testing whether we are prepared to live in it.

I would suggest that one of the earliest stages of this process occurred with the founding of the United States of America.

America introduced something fundamentally different into the relationship between individuals and government. Throughout history, there were certainly countries and rulers who treated Jews favorably. At various times, governments granted Jews privileges, protections, and rights. But those rights were generally understood as concessions granted by the ruling authorities. The government bestowed them, and the government could take them away.

The American founding introduced a different principle: the concept of inalienable rights. Human beings possess certain fundamental rights not because a government generously grants them, but because those rights are inherent in their humanity. The government does not create those rights. Its responsibility is to recognize and protect them.

That represents an extraordinary change. A person is no longer dependent upon the benevolence of a ruler for the basic right to practice his religion. Religious freedom is not merely a favor bestowed by the government. It is understood as a fundamental human right.

Perhaps this was an early preparation for the removal of shibud malchiyos. Hashem was, so to speak, giving the Jewish people an opportunity to experience a society in which they were no longer subject to the same kinds of religious restrictions that had characterized so much of Jewish history.

And what was the test? How would we use that freedom?

Some people interpreted religious freedom as the freedom to practice their religion without interference. They took advantage of the opportunity to learn Torah, observe mitzvos, establish yeshivos, build communities, and serve Hashem openly. But others understood freedom of religion as freedom from religion. Instead of using their newfound liberty to strengthen their commitment to Hashem, they used it as an opportunity to distance themselves from religious observance.

The question was whether Klal Yisrael would use freedom from oppression to pursue the purpose for which that freedom had been granted. I can only hope that the Ribbono Shel Olam grades on a curve, because perhaps then we will pass the test.

The next stage, I would suggest, concerns Eretz Yisrael.

In the days of Mashiach, Klal Yisrael will be gathered together in Eretz Yisrael. But perhaps before that complete kibbutz galuyos takes place, Hashem is giving us an opportunity to experience something of that reality. Beginning in 1948, the Jewish people once again had access to a Jewish state in Eretz Yisrael. An extraordinary possibility became available: Jews from throughout the world could come and establish their lives in the land of their ancestors.

This, too, is a test. Hashem is giving us a taste of what the world will look like when Klal Yisrael is gathered in Eretz Yisrael. How will we respond? Those who have the opportunity to live there must consider whether they are taking advantage of that opportunity appropriately. Those who already live there must ask whether they are conducting their lives in the manner expected of Jews living in Eretz Yisrael. Are we treating the land with the kedushah it deserves? Are we using the opportunities available to us to grow in Torah and mitzvos? Are we living in Eretz Yisrael as the Torah expects us to live there?

Of course, this does not mean that every Jew living outside Eretz Yisrael is necessarily failing a test. The question of whether a particular person should move to Eretz Yisrael is highly individual. Until Mashiach comes, the entire Jewish people cannot simply gather there through their own initiative. We are still living within the conditions of galus, and every person's circumstances must be considered.

An individual may certainly choose to live in Eretz Yisrael, but whether doing so is appropriate for a particular person depends upon many factors. For some, moving to Eretz Yisrael may be an extraordinary step forward in their Yiddishkeit. For others, it may create serious challenges that could negatively affect their spiritual lives.

One must consider parnassah, chinuch, family responsibilities, and numerous other practical and spiritual considerations. There is no single answer that applies equally to everyone. Therefore, one should not conclude that every Jew in Chutz La'aretz is doing something wrong. The decision requires individual judgment.

Nevertheless, the broader historical development remains extraordinary. Since 1948, the Jewish people have had access to a portion of the reality that will ultimately characterize the days of Mashiach. Hashem is allowing us to experience that reality in stages, observing how we respond before the complete redemption arrives.

Then came 1967.

With the events of the Six-Day War, the Jewish people regained access to places of extraordinary kedushah, including the Kosel HaMa'aravi. We did not receive the Beis Hamikdash itself. Indeed, the Kosel is not a surviving wall of the actual Beis Hamikdash building; it is part of the retaining wall of Har HaBayis. But we regained access to a place that represents an extraordinary connection to the Beis Hamikdash and to the presence of Hashem.

This, too, was a preparation. Before Hashem restores the Beis Hamikdash in its entirety, He gives us access to one of its surrounding walls. And the question becomes: how do we respond to that kedushah? Do we approach the Kosel with the reverence, sensitivity, and spiritual awareness that such a place demands? Do we appreciate what it represents, or have we become so accustomed to its accessibility that we take it for granted?

It is as though Hashem is saying, “Before I give you the entire Beis Hamikdash, let Me see how you treat what you have already received.”

Another development concerns kibbutz galuyos, the ingathering of the exiles.

We have witnessed extraordinary waves of Jewish immigration to Eretz Yisrael. Jews have arrived from Russia, Ethiopia, America, and countries throughout the world. Communities that were separated by geography, language, culture, and history have been brought together in one land. This is not yet the complete kibbutz galuyos that will take place with Mashiach. But it may be another preliminary stage, another opportunity for Klal Yisrael to prepare for the ultimate ingathering.

And once again, there is a test. When Jews from different countries and backgrounds are brought together, how do they treat one another? Can they live together with mutual respect? Can they overcome cultural differences, prejudices, and tensions? Can Jews from Russia, Ethiopia, America, and every other part of the world recognize that they are members of one people?

Consider what we say in Birchas HaChodesh: “Chaveirim kol Yisrael—May all of Israel be united in friendship.” Why is that so important? Because if Hashem were to gather Jews from every corner of the world into one place while they remained divided by hostility and resentment, the result could be disastrous. Instead of living together as one people, they might turn against one another. The ingathering of the exiles therefore requires more than physical relocation. It requires the ability to live together as brothers and sisters. It requires achdus, mutual respect, patience, and recognition of our shared identity.

There may be other developments taking place as well.

Consider the extraordinary advances in medicine. Diseases that were once considered fatal can now sometimes be treated or cured. Medical technology has extended human life and made possible treatments that earlier generations could scarcely have imagined.

Extraordinary longevity and the absence of illness are descriptions depicted in the days of Mashiach. Perhaps modern medical developments are giving humanity a preliminary taste of that reality. We are beginning to experience what it means to live longer and to overcome conditions that once seemed insurmountable.

And what is the test? What do we do with the additional years of life that modern medicine provides? How do we use the health and opportunities we have been given? If Hashem grants a person more years, does he use them to accomplish more Torah, more mitzvos, more chesed, and greater closeness to his Creator? Or does he simply use those years to pursue more of the same material pleasures that occupied him before? The advances in medicine are not merely about living longer. They are also an opportunity to demonstrate what we would do in a world where physical suffering and illness no longer occupy so much of our attention.

The same can be said about the extraordinary availability of knowledge. The Rambam tells us that in the days of Mashiach, knowledge and wisdom will be abundant. People will be able to attain extraordinary understanding, and the knowledge of Hashem will fill the world. Look at what has happened in our own time. Through the internet, information that once required years of searching through libraries can now be accessed almost instantaneously. Through artificial intelligence, enormous quantities of information can be organized, analyzed, connected, and presented with astonishing speed.

We are witnessing developments in the accessibility and integration of knowledge that previous generations could hardly have imagined. Information that once remained inaccessible to most people is now available at the touch of a button. This, too, is part of the preparation.

Hashem is giving humanity extraordinary tools for acquiring knowledge. The question is what we will do with them. Will we use these technologies to deepen our understanding of Torah, broaden access to Torah learning, and bring wisdom to people throughout the world? Or will we use them primarily for distraction, superficial entertainment, and pursuits that distance us from our true purpose? The technology itself does not determine the answer. We determine the answer through the choices we make. The Ribbono Shel Olam is giving us a taste of the extraordinary knowledge that will characterize the days of Mashiach and asking whether we are prepared to use it properly.

When we look at these developments together, a remarkable possibility emerges. The removal of religious oppression, the renewed accessibility of Eretz Yisrael, the return to the Kosel, the ingathering of Jews from across the world, advances in medicine, and the extraordinary availability of knowledge may all be understood as opportunities through which Hashem is preparing humanity for a different kind of world.

I am not claiming to know the Divine purpose behind particular historical events. We cannot know with certainty why Hashem has arranged history in a particular way. But based upon the Netziv's explanation of Mei Merivah, I believe there is a meaningful way to understand these developments. Before Hashem introduces a new hanhagah, He gives us an opportunity to prepare for it. Before bringing us fully into the world of Mashiach, He is allowing us to experience certain elements of that world and asking whether we are ready.

And that brings us back to tzipisa l'yeshuah.

If we truly anticipate Mashiach, our responsibility is not merely to wait for the world to change. Our responsibility is to respond appropriately to the opportunities Hashem has already placed before us. If we have religious freedom, we should use it to serve Hashem. If we have access to Eretz Yisrael and its holy places, we should appreciate their kedushah. If Jews from different backgrounds are living together, we should cultivate achdus. If medical advances give us more years of life, we should use those years meaningfully. If knowledge becomes more accessible, we should use it to deepen our understanding of Torah and our relationship with the Ribbono Shel Olam. The more we demonstrate that we can use these opportunities properly, the closer we come to showing that we are ready for the world of Mashiach.

May we be among those who pass these tests. May we use the extraordinary opportunities of our generation to strengthen our Torah, our mitzvos, our achdus, and our connection to Hashem. And may we be zocheh to see the Ribbono Shel Olam bring the world to its intended perfection, with the complete geulah, the rebuilding of the Beis Hamikdash, and the coming of Mashiach, bimheirah b'yameinu, amen.