Rabbi Yaacov Haber

The Art of Waiting

In this week's Parsha, we encounter a remarkable scene. The Jewish people are finally on their way to Eretz Yisrael with nearly three million men, women and children. They have waited centuries for this moment and they are eager to move forward. And then everything stops.

Miriam, the sister of Moshe Rabbeinu, is stricken with tzaraas and must remain outside the camp for seven days (Bamidbar 12:15). The nation is ready to journey onward, but Miriam cannot go with them. What should be done? The answer came quickly and unanimously. The entire nation would wait. If Miriam could not travel, no one would travel. If Miriam stayed behind, the Jewish people would stay behind with her.

Rashi explains that this was not merely an act of compassion. It was an act of gratitude.

Many years earlier, when Pharaoh decreed that every Jewish baby boy should be cast into the Nile, it was Miriam who refused to surrender hope. She convinced her parents, Amram and Yocheved, to continue building a family, foreseeing that a child would be born who would one day redeem the Jewish people. When that child, Moshe Rabbeinu, was placed into a basket and set upon the waters of the Nile, it was Miriam who stood nearby and waited.

The Torah tells us: "Vateisatzav achoso meirachok—His sister stood from afar” (Shemos 2:4). She waited to see what would become of him.

Yet one question remains. Of course Miriam waited; she was his sister. But where was everyone else? Where was Amram and Yocheved? Why is Miriam alone singled out for praise?

Perhaps the answer is that for everyone else, the dream seemed shattered. The Egyptians had won as Moshe drifted away in a basket upon the river. At that point, the future appeared uncertain. But Miriam saw something others could not. She understood that dreams do not always unfold according to our timetable and Divine plans do not always reveal themselves immediately. A prophecy may take years to emerge and a promise may pass through uncertainty before it becomes reality. Miriam believed even when she could not yet see. So she waited. And because she waited by the Nile, the entire Jewish people later waited for her.

The Torah is teaching us a profound lesson about patience. We live in a world that demands instant results, immediate answers and quick resolutions. We want our prayers answered now and our dreams fulfilled now. But some of life's greatest blessings require waiting. Faith often means remaining by the riverbank when we do not yet know how the story will end.

Miriam teaches us the art of waiting and the practice of patience. It derives from the ability to trust in Hashem and persevere, waiting for Hashem's plan to unfold in its proper time.

May we learn from her example. And may we have the strength to remain faithful even in moments of uncertainty, as we await to see the fulfillment of our hopes and prayers.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

Knowing Who You Can Become

In this week's Parsha, Moshe Rabbeinu cries out: "Where will I find meat to give to this entire nation?" (Bamidbar 11:13).

At first glance, the Pasuk is difficult to understand. Moshe Rabbeinu had already been the messenger to perform countless miracles. Through him, Hashem had split the sea, brought forth water from a rock, and sustained an entire nation in the wilderness. Why, then, was he troubled by the challenge of providing meat?

Rav Nosson Wachtfogel zt”l offers a profound explanation.

Moshe certainly possessed the ability to bring about the miracle. That was not the issue. Rather, Moshe had reached such an exalted spiritual level that he no longer related to the desire for meat at all. He had become so elevated that the request itself was foreign to him. It existed outside his spiritual radar and reality. For that reason, Hashem established the Shiv'im Zekeinim, the seventy elders, to assist him. Leadership of the Jewish people required not only greatness, but connection. The leader needed to understand the people he served, and Moshe's extraordinary spiritual stature had carried him beyond the experience of the ordinary person.

Such is a powerful lesson: we view life through the prism of our spiritual standing. From where we stand, we see the landscape of the world and people around us. This idea appears elsewhere too in a fascinating passage in the Gemara (Yoma 69b).

Moshe Rabbeinu described Hashem as, "HaKel HaGadol HaGibor Ve’HaNorah—The Great, Mighty, and Awesome G-d.” Yet generations later, the prophets struggled with those very words. Yirmiyah HaNavi looked around and saw foreign nations desecrating the Beis Hamikdash. "Nochrim m’karkerin b’heichalo—Strangers were frolicking in the Sanctuary.” "Where," he asked, "is Hashem's awesomeness?" And so he omitted the word Norah.

Daniel witnessed the Jewish people subjugated and exiled. "Nochrim mishtabdim b'banav—Foreign powers ruled over Hashem's children.” "Where," he asked, "is Hashem's might?" And so he omitted the word Gibor.

Later came the Anshei Knesses HaGedolah, the Men of the Great Assembly, and they restored the original formulation: "HaKel HaGadol HaGibor Ve’HaNorah." The Gemara says of them: "Hechziru atarah l'yoshnah—They restored the crown to its former glory.” Why were they able to say what Yirmiyahu and Daniel could not?

The answer, explained R’ Wachtfogel, is that Hashem desires truth. Yirmiyah could not honestly perceive the Divine awesomeness amid the destruction he witnessed and Daniel could not honestly perceive the Divine might amid the suffering and exile of his generation. They spoke according to the reality they experienced. The Anshei Knesses HaGedolah, however, perceived some else. They recognized that Hashem's greatness, might, and awesomeness were present even within the exile itself.

This is one of the foundations of spiritual growth: honesty. In this case, Yirmiyah and Daniel each spoke from where they genuinely stood and were honest with themselves. In life, underscore Chazal, a person must know truthfully what he is or is not doing. He must acknowledge when he has succeeded and when he has failed. Only then can he improve and climb higher. That is one part of the picture.

But there is another side to this as well. While a person must honestly recognize his shortcomings, he must also honestly recognize his positive qualities.

When Rav Aharon Kotler zt”l, the great Rosh Yeshivah of Lakewood, passed away, many students became despondent. They feared that the yeshiva could not survive. What would become of the future?

Around that time, a great talmid chacham related a remarkable dream. In the dream, Mashiach was sleeping. First, Chasam Sofer appeared and attempted to awaken him. Yet Mashiach remained asleep. Then Rav Aharon Kotler appeared and also tried to awaken Mashiach. Despite his greatness, Mashiach still did not awaken.

Finally, a group of simple yeshiva bachurim entered. Together, they approached Mashiach—and he awoke.

Rav Nosson Wachtfogel explained the message. Never underestimate the power of an individual Jew. One cannot know whose mitzvah, whose act of chesed, whose sincere tefillah, or whose dedication to Torah may tip the scales and bring the final redemption. It may not be a rabbi or renowned scholar. It may be a young Jewish boy or girl in school, someone whom the world hardly notices.

Growth begins with honesty: honesty about where we are and honesty about what we can become. We must know our limitations. But we must also know the astonishing potential Hashem has placed within each and every one of us. For it may be that the person capable of bringing the geulah is far closer than we imagine.

And that person is you.

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

The Trumpets of Every Generation

In this week's Parsha, Hashem instructs Moshe Rabbeinu: “Asei lecha shtei chatzotzrot kesef—Make for yourself two silver trumpets” (Bamidbar 10:2).

The Gemara (Yoma 3b) derives a fascinating lesson from the seemingly unnecessary word "Lecha,” for yourself. These trumpets were unique to Moshe and were not to be passed down to future generations.

This is striking.

The Aron was passed down, the Menorah was passed down, and the Urim Ve’Tumim (stones on the Breastplate) and many other sacred vessels continued from generation to generation. Why were the trumpets different? Why could Moshe's trumpets not be inherited?

Rav Yechezkel Abramsky zt”l offered a beautiful explanation.

The trumpets were not merely musical instruments. They were instruments of leadership. They gathered the nation, signaled movement and inspired and awakened Klal Yisrael during times of distress. The trumpets were the voice through which Moshe communicated with the nation (Bamidbar 10:2-10).

That, explains Rav Abramsky, is precisely why they could not be passed down. From generation to generation, the message never changes, but the method of communicating it does. How one awakens a Jew, how one inspires a Jew, what language reaches the heart, what tone resonates, what style motivates, all of these change from generation to generation. The trumpets Moshe used in his generation would not necessarily be effective in another. Therefore every generation requires its own trumpets.

What a profound insight. The foundations of Judaism never change because the principles are eternal. But the way we guide people often changes. Some generations respond to strong rebuke, whereas others respond to encouragement. Some need fiery words and others need warmth and reassurance. The destination remains the same, but the route used to guide people along the journey may differ.

We see this throughout Jewish history. For centuries, many maggidim emphasized stern rebuke and powerful mussar. Then came the great revolution of the Baal Shem Tov, who did not change the content of Torah or mitzvos, but did change the emphasis. He taught Jews how beloved they were before Hashem and encouraged them to focus on the hidden goodness within every Jew. He emphasized love and joy. Of course, every healthy educational approach requires balance and there must be boundaries alongside love, standards alongside encouragement. But they were not the same trumpets. The melody had changed because the generation required a different sound.

It is much like medicine. Imagine a brilliant physician who lived a century ago who was world-renowned. Thousands trusted his expertise and he prescribed treatments that were considered revolutionary in his time. Would we automatically use those same treatments today? Of course not. Does that diminish his genius? Not at all. He was precisely the doctor his generation needed. But medicine evolves, knowledge advances and treatments develop.

As we say in our Maariv (evening) prayers: "Meshaneh itim u'machalif es hazmanim—Hashem changes the times and the seasons.” Even the medical writings of the Rambam, one of the greatest physicians who ever lived, are not used today as practical medical manuals. We study them with admiration, but we do not fill prescriptions from them. The foundations of medical wisdom endure, but the practical application changes. The same is true in chinuch. Torah never changes, but how we educate may change dramatically.

This idea is beautifully illustrated by a remarkable story.

Rav Shalom Schwadron zt”l, the famed Maggid of Yerushalayim, delivered a weekly Chumash class every Friday night in Meah Shearim. His talks were legendary and filled with passion, humor, storytelling, and sharp insight.

One year, during Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, he delivered a particularly powerful drashah in his usual style, weaving together serious themes with moments of wit and humor. Afterward, an elderly man approached him. "It’s the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah," the man said. "These are serious days. Why are you making jokes?" Rav Schwadron took the criticism seriously and the entire Shabbos he thought about it. Perhaps the man was right and his approach was inappropriate. After Shabbos, he traveled to Bnei Brak to consult the Chazon Ish and presented the question. The Chazon Ish listened and then replied: "I cannot answer until I hear the drashah exactly as you delivered it." Rav Schwadron was stunned, but he complied.

Standing before one of the greatest Torah giants of the generation, he repeated the entire drashah exactly as he had delivered it to his audience, with all the humor, all the stories, and all the emotion. The Chazon Ish closed his eyes and listened carefully. At one point, Rabbi Schwadron noticed a faint smile crossing the Chazon Ish's face. When the drashah was complete, the Chazon Ish opened his eyes and said, "Deliver it exactly that way. Do not change a thing."

Then he added a remarkable observation: "Had such drashos been delivered two hundred years ago, perhaps the Haskalah (Enlightenment) would never have arisen."

The Chazon Ish understood something fundamental. We must not merely know Torah; we must understand our generation. We must know which trumpet to sound. Our Torah values and tradition is never to change, but the tone, the style, the emphasis, and the method must be tailored to the needs of the generation standing before us.

That is the lesson of Moshe's silver trumpets. The trumpets themselves could not be inherited because every generation requires its own call. Every generation needs its own voice and every generation needs its own trumpets.

But every leader must possess the wisdom to know not only what to say. He must know how to say it.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

Retire to Eternity

The Torah tells us regarding the Levi'im: "When he reaches the age of fifty, he shall retire from the service and no longer perform the labor” (Bamidbar 8:24-26).

The Chofetz Chaim sees in these words a lesson, one that is no less relevant today than it was a century ago. What does it mean that at fifty a person retires? Does it mean he should spend the rest of his days relaxing?

Not exactly.

The Chofetz Chaim writes: "Ela kol echad yezarez atzmo b'yoser l'Torah u'ma'asim tovim…—A person should strengthen himself in Torah and good deeds so that he is prepared for the day that is entirely Shabbos, the World to Come.”

If someone plans to retire and use the extra time to learn more Torah, daven more, perform more chesed, spend more time helping others, then retirement can be a beautiful thing. But if retirement means spending another six hours doing things that do not matter, then he should ask his employer for more hours and keep working.

Work is generally good for a person. Human beings need purpose, responsibility and structure. Too much idle time is often unhealthy. The Chofetz Chaim was speaking to people who possessed values and intended to replace one meaningful activity with another even more meaningful activity. His point was not that one should stop being productive, but that there comes a stage in life when productivity should increasingly be directed toward eternal investments.

The Mishnah says: "Ben arba'im l'binah, ben chamishim l'eitzah—At forty, [one attains] understanding. At fifty, [one becomes capable of giving] advice” (Avos 5:25). How does that happen?

The Chofetz Chaim explains that understanding develops gradually. At forty, a person begins to see life differently. The lessons, failures, successes, and experiences of decades begin to crystallize into wisdom. By fifty, that wisdom matures. Now he is no longer merely living life, but he is capable of guiding others through it. He becomes a ba'al eitzah, someone whose judgment carries weight.

But then the Chofetz Chaim says something remarkable. If you are capable of giving advice to others, then first and foremost you should be giving advice to yourself. "Tzarich lehisya'etz b'atzmo." A person should sit down and ask: what am I preparing for? Where am I headed? What provisions am I packing for the final journey?

We spend decades preparing for retirement. We save money, invest, build portfolios and think about where we will live. But how much time do we spend preparing for eternity?

The Chofetz Chaim's message is not that one should stop working. It is that eventually a person must begin shifting some of his energy away from accumulating possessions and toward accumulating zechuoys (merits) for eternity and becoming the person he was created to be.

There comes a point in life when the most important advice you can receive is the advice you give yourself. And that advice is simple: start preparing for the journey of eternity.