Rabbi Michael Kaplan

Heavenly Reversal

This week, the Torah gives us a single word that can transform the way we understand the mechanics of tefillah (prayer). The Pasuk states, “Vaye’atar Yitzchak la’Hashem lenochach ishto, ki akarah hi—And Yitzchak entreated Hashem opposite his wife, for she was barren” (Bereishis 25:21). Chazal (Yevamos 64a) immediately note something unusual. The Torah does not say, “Vayitpalel,” he prayed, or,“Vayitzak,” he cried out. It uses the rare, evocative word vaye’atar.

What does vaye’atar mean?

Chazal explain that the word denotes a reversal, a flipping of the natural order. And that nuance matters profoundly, because the Torah emphasizes, “Ki akarah hi—Rivkah was barren.” She was unable to conceive not merely in circumstance, but literally. Her body itself lacked the natural capacity for conception. Yet Yitzchak’s tefillah rose to such heights that it transcended built-in limitations and overturned them. His prayer did not move within nature; it rewrote nature.

Rav Baruch Sorotzkin elaborates. Most prayers flow through the world as Hashem designed it. We ask the Ribbono Shel Olam to send beracha through the channels He formed. Only on rare occasion does a tefillah emerge so genuine, so elevated, that it bends reality itself.

But Chazal (Vayikra Rabbah 10:5) add a puzzling idea: “Tefilah accomplishes half.” What does that mean?

The Maggid of Trisk offers a beautiful interpretation. Before a person prays, his list of “needs” feels endless. But true tefillah brings clarity, and half of what we thought we needed simply falls away. Authentic prayer does not only change reality; it changes the person. And once a person is transformed, even slightly, his tefillah can ascend to the level of Vaye’atar, a prayer capable of overturning nature.

With that in mind, the principle becomes clear: when a person changes, the world around him begins to change as well.

Here is a story that captures this with stunning force.

There is a maggid shiur in Bnei Brak who gives a Daf Yomi shiur each morning. Among the regular attendees is a baal teshuvah named Eli, who manages the cafeterias at Tel Aviv University. He wears his beard and tzitzis proudly, sends his children to yeshivot, yet works in a secular environment overseeing campus food services.

One professor on campus—brilliant, influential, and deeply antagonistic toward anything holy—would mock Eli whenever he passed him. Eli always responded softly: “Thank you very much.”

Then one morning, the professor appeared broken. Eli approached him gently and asked if everything was alright. The professor collapsed emotionally. “My wife gave birth to a baby girl,” he said. “And the doctors say she will never see. Every test is identical. There is no hope.”

Eli told him, “There is someone who can help: Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l.” The professor hesitated for only a moment. Then: “Take me to him.” Eli called his maggid shiur for guidance. The maggid asked one question: “Does he keep Shabbat?” Eli shook his head. “Tell him that if he wants a beracha, he must accept Shabbat first.” The professor didn’t blink. “I accept.”

By Tuesday, the meeting was arranged. Encounters with Rav Chaim usually lasted seconds. But this time Rav Chaim asked many questions. The professor admitted: “I don’t keep mitzvot. But the doctors say my daughter will never see. I accepted Shabbat. Please bless me, Rabbi.” Rav Chaim replied simply: “If you have truly accepted Shabbat, your daughter will see with both eyes.” The professor protested: “But the doctors unanimously said—” Rav Chaim interrupted: “When a person changes, the doctors’ prognosis changes as well.”

The professor left shaken, overwhelmed. He immediately called Eli: “I accepted Shabbat. Tell me how to keep it.” Eli guided him step by step. He bought candles, a timer, a hot plate—everything he needed.

That Friday morning—barely seventy-two hours later—the baby had an appointment with the head of ophthalmology. After examining her, the doctor said, “I don’t understand. We were mistaken. This is treatable. One procedure will allow her to see.” And so it was. The baby underwent the procedure, and soon after, she could see.

Today the professor is fully Shomer Shabbat. And he says, “The moment I accepted that mitzvah… Hashem accepted me.”

If there is one truth that emerges from our Parsha and from this story, it is this: Hashem is not asking us to be perfect. He is asking us to be willing.

Yitzchak’s tefillah overturned nature because it was honest. That professor’s daughter merited a miracle because, in one quiet moment, he said the words that open every gate in Shamayim: “I am ready to change.”

What moves the world is not brilliance, nor strength, nor drama, nor grand gestures. It is the courage to shift even one degree closer to who we are meant to become.

Because the moment a person changes, even slightly, Shamayim changes everything around him.

Do not seek perfection. Seek movement. One mitzvah, one habit refined, one moment of genuine tefillah that clarifies what truly matters, and you will uncover the secret hidden that when we change, the story changes.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

To Hear the Truth

In Parshas Toldos, we encounter one of the most pivotal and perplexing episodes in the entire narrative of the Avos: Yitzchak Avinu unwittingly conferring the berachos upon Yaakov, while Yaakov, at the instruction of Rivkah, enters clad in the clothes of Eisav.

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch poses a fundamental question. What exactly was unfolding here? Yaakov acted only because his mother, Rivkah, the tzadekes and prophetess, commanded him. But Rivkah’s strategy seems, at first glance, almost illogical. Could she truly expect that Yitzchak would not realize what was happening? Yaakov may have worn Eisav’s garments, but he still spoke with the voice of Yaakov. The deception appears too fragile, too transparent.

Rav Shimon Schwab offer a brilliant insight, one that transforms our understanding of the entire episode.

Rivkah’s intention was not merely to secure the blessings. Her goal was to send Yitzchak a message. By deliberately instructing Yaakov to enter in disguise, yet still sounding unmistakably like Yaakov, she created a scenario in which Yitzchak would realize that even he could be fooled. And if Yaakov could fool him in a single moment…perhaps Eisav had fooled him for decades.

When Yaakov left and the truth emerged, the Torah says, “Vayecherad Yitzchak charadah gedolah ad me’od—Yitzchak trembled with an overwhelming terror” (Bereishis 27:33). Chazal explain that he saw Gehinnom open beneath him. In that instant, Yitzchak grasped Rivkah’s message with painful clarity. If he was capable of mistaking Yaakov for Eisav, then perhaps all these years he had mistaken Eisav for Yaakov, perceiving righteousness where there was none.

And immediately, Yitzchak declared, “Whoever was here, he shall indeed be blessed” (ibid.).

Yitzchak accepted fully, honestly, and without defensiveness that the blessings rightfully belonged to Yaakov all along.

This is an extraordinary moment of greatness. Human nature rebels against admitting error. The old line captures it perfectly: “Don’t confuse me with the facts; I’ve already made up my mind.” We see it everywhere. In public discourse. In media. In the world’s refusal to hear truth about Israel or the Jewish people. The facts don’t matter once emotions and preconceived narratives have taken root.

But the tzaddik is different. And Yitzchak Avinu, one of the greatest human beings to ever walk the earth, models the opposite response. He does not defend his earlier assumptions. He does not cling to an opinion simply because he held it for years. He listens. He thinks. He absorbs the new reality. And he changes.

Even after a lifetime of believing Eisav deserved those blessings, Yitzchak surrenders his perspective the instant truth becomes clear. That is spiritual greatness: the humility to let truth penetrate, even when it overturns a deeply held view.

So often we hear truth, whether in relationships, in arguments, in self-reflection, but emotion, ego, and habit prevent us from accepting it. We become invested in being “right,” even when we know deep down that we are not. As we enter Chodesh Kislev, moving toward the luminous days of Chanukah, the festival of ohr, of light breaking through darkness, this message is especially relevant.

To experience the light of Chanukah, the ohr haTorah and ohr ha’emes, we must be willing to open our hearts to let truth in and let Hashem’s message illuminate the corners of our lives where we may be resisting change.

Rabbi Yonoson Roodyn

Digging Determination

This week’s Parsha tells us how Yitzchak digs wells… finds water… loses them… digs again… repeats the cycle. It seems to be a strange small section in the Torah. Why the extended focus? What are we supposed to learn from this?

The Chofetz Chaim says explains that this episode is more than history. Yitzchak’s wells teach a timeless principle of personal growth.

The Torah describes how “Yitzchak’s servants dug in the valley and discovered a well of fresh, living water” (Bereishis 26:19) Yet the Chofetz Chaim notes that before this success, Yitzchak dug and found nothing. He dug yet again and still nothing. Finally, when he dug again, is he successful and calls the well rechovos, referring to a place of spaciousness, peace, and blessing.

Why does the Torah narrate every stage? To teach us how people grow.

We begin projects with hope, passion, and excitement. And then reality hits. Obstacles appear. Delays, difficulties, disappointments. The easiest thing in the world is to throw up our hands and say, “It’s not meant to be.” But Yitzchak does not stop. He digs and meets resistance, yet he digs again. But still, he encounters setbacks. And yet, he digs again. Only finally is he successful.

Success, says the Chofetz Chaim, whether spiritual or material, rarely comes easily. The ones who accomplish are the ones who persist.

This is true in ruchniyus. Learning is difficult. Truly understanding Torah requires patience, time, review and effort. Many people become discouraged, thinking, “I’ll never understand it.” “I don’t know the language.” “It’s too hard.”

But the Torah says encourages us to keep digging. Keep learning. Keep pushing. Keep trying. The only reason most people fail is that they stop too early.

Most meaningful achievements—careers, relationships, family life, community projects, personal goals—come with resistance. In our day and age, one of the greatest challenges we face is a culture that gives up too quickly. If success isn’t instant, people walk away. If the first attempt fails, the dream dies.

Yitzchak Avinu teaches the opposite: If at first you don’t succeed, dig again. Show Hashem, show the world, and show yourself how much you want it. Perseverance carves pathways that talent alone never can. Because if we undertake our efforts with determination, persistence, and faith, Hashem will bring blessing.

Rabbi Chaim Gross

Honoring Your Parents

Today, in 2025, life expectancy is more than double what it was a century ago. It is no longer unusual to find children in their seventies caring for parents nearing one hundred. Science attributes this dramatic rise to improved hygiene, nutrition, and medical advances. But Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman zt”l saw something more.

Why did Hakadosh Baruch Hu choose now, in our time, asked Rav Shteinman, to bring about such an exponential increase in longevity? What is the spiritual purpose behind this shift?

Coming from Rav Shteinman, the question is profound. Born in 1914 and raised in Brisk, he grew up next door to the Brisker Rav and learned under Rav Aharon Kotler in the 1930s. In 1937, fleeing the Polish draft, he escaped to Switzerland, only to be interned in a labor camp. The Swiss authorities quickly released him from heavy work; he was too frail, too thin, too physically weak to bear a load.

That frailty, however, became part of his greatness.

Arriving in Eretz Yisrael in the 1940s, he emerged as a towering Torah figure, becoming a rosh kollel of Ponovezh, head of the Ponovezh Yeshiva Ketana, and later the guiding light of the Torah world. Yet despite his position, he lived with breathtaking simplicity. His daily food intake was a cucumber, a boiled potato, and a few spoonfuls of oatmeal. For six decades he slept on the same wooden board and thin mattress given to him by the Jewish Agency upon his arrival in Israel.

I once visited him on Chazon Ish Street 5 in Bnei Brak. The scene was unforgettable. The walls had not been touched, perhaps not even painted, in over thirty years. The old furniture, the peeling plaster radiated utter simplicity. There was not a trace of gashmiyus. Had gravity not insisted on a floor, I am not sure the apartment would have had one.

When he once came to London to speak and was offered a modest upholstered chair, he immediately declined. “Please,” he said gently, “a simple chair is enough.” He lived as pure spirit in a frail vessel, yet what a spirit it was.

Until his nineties, Rav Shteinman scarcely left the Beis Medrash. His sefarim—Ayeles HaShachar, his commentary on Chumash and Shas—reveal the depth of his mind. But then, in his 90s, something changed. He decided to travel the world to give chizuk to Jews everywhere. And so, with a body that seemed to defy its own limits, he journeyed to Mexico City, Berlin, France, Gibraltar and beyond, encouraging, advising and uplifting. Until his hundredth birthday, he continued these travels, and even afterward, his home was open day and night, receiving Jews from every walk of life.

So what was his answer? Why did Hashem orchestrate this massive rise in longevity?

To understand, we need to turn to this week’s Parsha.

Chazal (Devarim Rabbah 1:15) praise Eisav’s unparalleled excellence in the mitzvah of kibbud av va’em. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel testified that he served his own father his entire life, yet never reached even one percent of Eisav’s devotion. The Zohar states that no human being ever equaled him in this mitzvah. Even Yaakov Avinu observed that Eisav never once angered their father Yitzchak.

But why was Eisav so extraordinarily gifted in this area?

The Maharal explains that Eisav’s sechel, his human intellect, was extremely strong, and kibbud av is a mitzvah that aligns perfectly with sechel. Parents bring a child into the world, nurture him, protect him and it makes sense to honor them. A Torah Jew, however, faces the complication of knowing there is a third partner in creation: Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Awareness of Hashem’s role can subtly lessen the exclusive focus placed on parents. Eisav, who lived entirely within this-worldly logic, had no such challenge and therefore excelled beyond all others.

With this, Rav Shteinman offered his breathtaking insight.

As we draw closer to the end of days, the long spiritual struggle with Eisav approaches its climax. Eisav’s unparalleled strength in the mitzvah of honoring parents must be counterbalanced within Klal Yisrael. Therefore, Hashem has extended human life, so that we, the Jewish people, have the opportunity to perform the mitzvah of kibbud av va’em in a way that rivals Eisav’s greatness. Longevity, therefore, is not merely biological. It is spiritual strategy, giving us more time to fulfill this foundational mitzvah.

And indeed, nurses and doctors in hospitals across Britain report that no one tends to their elderly parents with the devotion, patience, and dignity that Jewish families do. Klal Yisrael is rising to the challenge.

Rav Shteinman himself, tragically, did not have the opportunity to fulfill this mitzvah in its fullest form. His parents were murdered in the war, and he alone survived. Once he was invited to speak at a gathering in Bnei Brak about kibbud av, and he refused. When pressed for a reason, he said: “When I was ten years old, my mother once prepared food for me, and I refused to eat it. I do not feel worthy to speak about this mitzvah.”

One imagines, from their vantage point in the World of Truth, that his parents are overflowing with nachas. At 104, his pure soul returned to its Creator, a journey he had prepared for his entire life. In his will, he left instructions reflecting the staggering humility that defined him:

No hespedim. No articles in newspapers. No announcements over radio or loudspeaker. Ten people are enough for the levayah. Do not call me “God-fearing,” he said, lest I be embarrassed in the World of Truth. And finally: “Many people are mistaken about me. I advise them not to name children after me, but I do not forbid it.”

What a towering giant. What a humble heart. May his memory be a blessing.