Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

To Know G-d

“Who created G-d?”

At first glance, it sounds like a devastating question. Scientists tell us that every effect must have a cause and every event must emerge from something prior to it. Every physical reality points backward to another reality that produced it. But eventually you arrive at the beginning itself, the origin of the universe. And then the question becomes unavoidable: What caused that?

This is not merely a challenge for science. It is a challenge for every thinking religious person. If faith rests only on the statement “I just believe,” then it remains vulnerable to intellectual attack. The skeptic asks: “If everything has a cause, then what caused G-d?”

The truth is that belief in G-d is not a retreat from intellect. It is not a leap into irrationality. Judaism has never seen faith as the enemy of thought. On the contrary, authentic belief is the natural culmination of rigorous thinking itself.

The Rambam opens Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah (1:1) with a remarkable formulation: “The foundation of all foundations and the pillar of all wisdom is to know that there exists a First Existent.” Not merely to believe. To know. But how can one possibly know such a thing? The answer requires a profound shift in the way we think about existence itself.

There are realities that come into existence. Physical entities exist within time and space. They begin, change, deteriorate, and end. These realities require causes because they are contingent. They did not have to exist, and therefore something else must account for them. But not every reality functions that way.

Take a mathematical truth such as two plus two equals four. No one “created” that equation. There was never a moment when two plus two suddenly became four. It does not emerge, evolve, decay, or disappear. It is not a physical object within the universe. It is an eternal truth that is timeless and uncaused.

The mistake is assuming that all existence resembles physical existence. We unconsciously imagine everything as though it were another object inside the universe, another thing among things, requiring prior causes in an endless chain. But G-d, in classical Jewish thought, is not an object within the system of cause and effect. He is the necessary ground of the system itself. Not a being that happens to exist, but Being itself— the reality upon which all contingent existence depends.

Thus, asking “Who created G-d?” is ultimately like asking, “What caused causality?” or “Who invented the laws of logic?” The question mistakenly applies categories that belong only to finite, contingent realities onto that which transcends contingency altogether.

Belief in G-d, then, is not intellectual surrender. It is the recognition that behind everything which begins must stand that which never began; behind everything dependent must stand that which is intrinsically necessary. Not all realities are physical. Not all truths are temporal. And not all existence is contingent.

Some realities simply are.

Rabbi Mordechai Finkelman

A Gem of a Husband

There are moments in life when the very assumptions upon which we built our thinking quietly collapse beneath us. Abie Rotenberg’s song ‘The Ring’ is one such example, offering an insightful mussar lesson no less.

A young woman once misplaced her expensive diamond ring during Sheva Berachos following her wedding. The family searched frantically, but the ring could not be found. Her in-laws were deeply distressed. It was a costly piece of jewelry, and beneath the surface hovered the unspoken tension: how could she have been so careless with something so valuable? Quiet strain began creeping into the relationship between the young kallah and her new family.

One winter day, while walking together with his wife, the husband slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! Look what I found here!” He pulled out the missing diamond ring and laughed warmly. “This is entirely my fault. I must have absentmindedly placed it in my pocket and forgotten about it.”

The atmosphere transformed instantly. The family laughed. Instead of criticism or embarrassment directed toward the young bride, the incident became an affectionate joke about their son being a distracted “absent-minded professor.” The tension dissolved. The kallah’s dignity was preserved, peace returned to the home, and life moved forward beautifully. They built a family together and raised children lovingly.

Years later, after this devoted husband had passed away, his widow was cleaning through old belongings. Alone in the house, she came across an old suitcase from her days as a kallah and decided to sort through it before discarding it. As she moved around folded clothing and personal items, she suddenly froze.

There, lying inside the suitcase, was the original diamond ring.

At that moment, she realized the truth. Her husband had known all along that she had misplaced the ring. Quietly and without fanfare, he had purchased an identical replacement and orchestrated the entire “discovery” in his coat pocket solely to spare her humiliation and preserve peace within the family. What she had interpreted for years as a humorous accident was, in reality, an extraordinary act of wise sensitivity and selfless love.

An example for us all.

Rabbi Chaim Gross

The Toil of the Tailor

Parshas Bechukosai opens with a stirring promise of blessing and abundance, conditional upon one foundational demand: “If you walk in My statutes” (Vayikra 26:3). Rashi famously cites Chazal’s explanation that this refers not merely to observance, but to ameilus ba’Torah, toiling in Torah.

Indeed, Chazal embedded this very ideal into the nusach recited upon completing a Mesechta: “We toil and they toil. We toil and receive reward; they toil and do not receive reward.”

At first glance, those words are difficult to understand. Is it really true that those engaged in worldly pursuits receive no reward for their efforts? A glance at society seems to suggest otherwise. There are countless people laboring in business and professional life who enjoy wealth, comfort and success, while many who dedicate themselves to Torah struggle financially and live with hardship.

This very question was raised by the great Chofetz Chaim.

Born in 1838 in Zhetel, in present-day Belarus, the Chofetz Chaim endured hardship from an early age. His father passed away when he was only ten years old, prompting his mother to move the family to Vilna for the sake of her children’s education. Eventually, the family settled in Radin, where the Chofetz Chaim would spend most of his life and emerge as one of the towering spiritual giants of modern Jewish history.

There are countless dimensions of his greatness one could discuss, from his righteousness to his humility, leadership, and self-sacrifice for Klal Yisrael. But perhaps most astonishing was his unparalleled greatness in Torah. Beginning in 1869, he headed the famed yeshiva in Radin and became one of the generation’s central Torah authorities, shaping students such as Rav Elazar Shach zt”l and Rav Elchonon Wasserman hy”d.

What was remarkable about the Chofetz Chaim was not merely the breadth of his Torah knowledge, but his responsiveness to the needs of the generation. Whenever he recognized a weakness or challenge confronting the Jewish people, he immersed himself completely in that area and produced seforim that transformed Jewish life.

When Jewish soldiers conscripted into the Russian army struggled to maintain halachic observance, he authored Machaneh Yisrael. When isolated Jewish communities required guidance, he wrote Nidchei Yisrael. Seeing the devastating spiritual damage caused by careless speech, he composed the monumental Chofetz Chaim and Shemiras HaLashon. When he sensed a need for strengthening in interpersonal mitzvos, he wrote Ahavas Chesed.

Most famous of all is undoubtedly the Mishnah Berurah, together with the Biur Halachah and Sha’ar HaTziyun. For many, it serves as the definitive guide to practical halacha. Yet anyone who has learned a sugya (Gemara topic) deeply and then opened the Biur Halachah recognizes something extraordinary: within just a few lines, the Chofetz Chaim demonstrates breathtaking mastery over the entire landscape of the topic at hand, from its sources to its arguments, nuances, and implications.

Returning to our original question, the Chofetz Chaim explains Chazal’s statement through a penetrating mashal.

Imagine bringing a torn garment to a tailor and asking him to repair it. Several days later, you return, only to find the tailor exhausted and frustrated. He explains that he spent days laboring over the garment but ultimately failed to repair it properly. Such a tailor has no claim to payment, says the Chofetz Chaim. Why? Because he was hired to produce results. Effort alone is insufficient if the task remains undone.

Torah learning operates differently.

In Torah, the toil itself is the achievement. The exertion, the struggle, the effort to understand is not merely a means to the goal; it is itself the goal. Accomplishment is precious, but it is a secondary outcome. The primary value lies in the toil.

And that yields a radical conclusion.

A struggling individual who wrestles with a sugya for an hour and still emerges without full clarity may receive greater reward than the naturally brilliant person who grasps the entire sugya in ten minutes and spends the rest of the hour elsewhere. In worldly matters, compensation is tied to productivity and outcome. In Torah, reward is measured by exertion and devotion.

How fitting that this message should come specifically from the Chofetz Chaim himself.

Reportedly, the Chofetz Chaim was not considered exceptionally gifted in his youth. His greatness emerged through relentless hasmada (diligence). The Chazon Ish once remarked that among all the remarkable qualities of the Chofetz Chaim, his greatest attribute was his hasmadah ba’Torah, his unceasing dedication to Torah study.

A powerful illustration of this appears in a story involving Rav Elchonon Wasserman during his years learning in Radin. While studying in the Kodshim kollel, Rabbi Elchonon received word that his wife had given birth to a son. Naturally, he approached the Chofetz Chaim to request permission to travel home for the bris. The Chofetz Chaim asked him a simple question: “Are you the mohel?” Rabbi Elchonon replied that he was not.

The Chofetz Chaim then answered: “If you were the mohel, I would tell you to go, because a mitzvah performed personally carries unique value. But if you are going merely to participate in the simchah and make others happy, then you should remain here learning Torah.”

While this may not be our approach today, the Chofetz Chaim’s message still applies. To him, Torah learning was not merely preparation for life. It was itself life’s highest pursuit. And no one embodied that principle more completely than he did himself. And so is to be true for each and every one of us.

Rabbi Avrohom Schorr

Elevating Out Of Egypt

The Pasuk says: “When you go out to war against your enemies, and you see horses and chariots, a nation greater than you, do not be afraid of them, for Hashem your G-d is with you, the One who took you up from the land of Egypt” (Devarim 20:1).

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh and many seforim explain that this Pasuk is speaking not only about physical war, but about the inner war every Jew fights throughout life.

“When you go out to war against your enemy”— when a person goes out to battle against his enemy, against the yetzer hara. And immediately, the yetzer hara begins attacking him with his past.

“And you see horse and chariot, a nation greater than you”—The yetzer hara shows a person the army he has built through his aveiros (sins). “Look what you’ve done. Look how many failures you have behind you. Look how much impurity and how many destructive forces you created through your actions. You think now you’re suddenly going to change? You think now you’re going to become holy?”

A person wants to grow and take on a kabbalah. He wants to become better. And immediately the yetzer hara whispers: “You? Become better? After everything you’ve done?”

But the Torah says: “Do not fear them.” Why? “Because Hashem, Who took you out of Egypt, is with you.”

The seforim explain that Mitzrayim was not merely physical slavery. Egypt was the lowest spiritual abyss imaginable. Chazal teach that Klal Yisrael had descended to the forty-ninth gate of tumah. Yet Hashem lifted them out and elevated them to become the nation that stood at Har Sinai.

And therefore every Jew must know: if Hashem could take a nation from the depths of Mitzrayim and bring them to kedushah, then no Jew is ever trapped by his past. That is why we mention leaving Egypt every single day. As explained in the Tanya, every day a person must see himself as leaving Mitzrayim anew. Every day a Jew can leave behind his personal constraints, his failures, his addictions, his fears, and his spiritual exile.

Notice the wording of the Pasuk carefully. It does not say merely that Hashem “took you out” of Egypt. It says: “The One Who elevated you out of Egypt.” Hashem does not merely remove a Jew from darkness. He elevates him beyond it.

And this is the great power of teshuvah. The Rambam (Hilchos Teshuvah 2:4) writes that when a person does true teshuvah, he becomes like an entirely new person. The old self no longer defines him. The past no longer possesses him. A Jew is not chained eternally to yesterday.

That is the chizuk every person must carry. No matter where a Jew has fallen, no matter how much the yetzer hara reminds him of his past, he must know that Hashem gave Klal Yisrael the miraculous ability to become new again.

Rabbi Shlomo Landau

Peace Between Us

One of the greatest gifts of being a Jew is the opportunity to live with the weekly Parsha. Every single week, the Torah somehow speaks directly to the moment we are living in; sometimes personally, sometimes nationally, and often both at once. A Pasuk written thousands of years ago suddenly feels like it was written this morning.

In this week’s Parsha, there is a message that feels especially timely and painfully relevant.

Parshas Bechukosai opens:

“Im bechukosai teilechu—If you walk in My statues.” If the Jewish people live according to Torah, if Torah becomes not merely something they observe occasionally but the very rhythm and foundation of their lives, then Hashem promises extraordinary blessings.

Among them: “You will dwell securely in your land.”

Imagine those words.

Safety. Security. Peace of mind. No fear of enemies. No anxiety about missiles, terror, Hezbollah, Iran, or the endless threats surrounding the State of Israel. No fear of world opinion, political hostility, international hypocrisy, or the instability of nations. The Ribbono Shel Olam Himself—the only One who can truly guarantee security—promises protection.

But then the Torah adds another blessing:

“And I will place peace in the land” (Vayikra 26:6) At first glance, the Pasuk sounds repetitive. Didn’t the Torah already promise security with “And you shall securely in your land” (ibid. 26:5)? What additional blessing is being given here?

The answer is profound. The first blessing refers to peace from without. The second blessing refers to peace from within.

The Torah is teaching us that it is possible for a nation to survive external enemies and still be internally fractured. A people can possess military strength, intelligence capabilities, alliances, and defense systems, yet still be torn apart from the inside by hatred, division, suspicion, and ideological warfare.

Therefore the Torah gives a second, deeper beracha: “And I will place peace in the land.” That Jews should live in peace with one another. That there should not be endless camps and factions tearing each other apart. Not religious against secular. Not left against right. Not Ashkenazi against Sephardi. Not one camp delegitimizing another camp. The greatest blessing is not merely that our enemies fail to destroy us. It is that we stop destroying each other. Throughout Jewish history, external enemies have wounded us. But internal division has devastated us.

And perhaps that is why the second blessing is greater than the first. A nation united internally becomes nearly indestructible externally. So as we read this week’s Parsha, we should certainly daven for protection from those who seek to harm the Jewish people. We should pray for the safety of soldiers, civilians, and all of Klal Yisroel.

But perhaps even more urgently, we should pray for the fulfillment of the second promise: “And I will place peace in the land.” That Hashem should bring peace not only around us, but between us.