Mr. Josh Brody

The Echo of Effort

The Torah relates that following the episode involving Noach and the planting of a vineyard following the Mabul, his sons Shem and Yefes took a garment and respectfully covered their father. In recognition of their conduct, both were rewarded. Rashi, though, draws our attention to a remarkable detail in the Torah’s description of their actions.

The Pasuk states, “Vayikach Shem vaYefes es hasimlah—And Shem and Yefes took the garment” (Bereishis 9:23). Although two brothers participated in the act, the Torah employs the singular expression vayikach, rather than the plural vayikchu.

Rashi explains that this distinction is deliberate. Shem demonstrated greater initiative and exerted himself more fully in performing the mitzvah than did Yefes. Consequently, although both brothers received a reward, Shem merited an additional and extraordinary distinction: his descendants would be privileged to fulfill the mitzvah of tzitzis.

Consider the significance of this. The mitzvah of tzitzis, which has accompanied the Jewish people throughout the generations, is connected to the exceptional effort that Shem invested in honoring his father.

But this raises an obvious question. Both Shem and Yefes participated in precisely the same act. Both took the garment, approached their father, and covered him respectfully. If their actions were essentially identical, why should their rewards have differed so dramatically?

The answer, as Rashi explains, lies not in what they accomplished, but in the effort they invested in accomplishing it.

Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz draws from this episode a profound insight into the way Hashem evaluates human achievement. We tend to measure people by their accomplishments. We observe what they have achieved, the contributions they have made, and the results they have produced. When two individuals perform the same act or reach the same objective, we naturally assume that their achievements are equivalent.

Yet this perspective overlooks one of the most fundamental dimensions of our relationship with Hashem. The ultimate measure of a person's spiritual achievement is not simply what he accomplishes, but how much of himself he invests in the pursuit. After all, the results of our endeavors are never entirely within our control. We may plan, prepare, persevere, and dedicate ourselves wholeheartedly to a particular objective, but whether those efforts ultimately succeed rests in the hands of Hashem. What remains within our control is the effort we choose to invest.

And that is precisely what Hashem values.

An individual may accomplish something extraordinary. He may enjoy remarkable success, earn widespread admiration, and leave behind an impressive record of achievement. Yet when he arrives in Shamayim after 120 years, the question will not simply be how much he accomplished.

For Hashem, so to speak, can say, “The opportunities you received, the abilities you possessed, and the success you experienced were all gifts that I provided. I enabled those accomplishments to become possible. But what did you contribute? How much effort did you invest? How fully did you utilize the abilities and circumstances I entrusted to you?”

Conversely, another individual may appear to have accomplished very little. His efforts may have yielded few visible results. He may have struggled repeatedly, encountered disappointment after disappointment, and fallen short of the objectives he desperately hoped to achieve. From the outside, his life may seem unremarkable. Yet in the eyes of Hashem, that very individual may possess extraordinary greatness.

Hashem sees what others cannot see. He sees the struggle and the determination required simply to continue trying and He recognizes the effort that never translated into public recognition or measurable success. And Hashem can look upon such a person and declare, “This is the individual I cherish. This is someone who continued striving even when success seemed beyond his reach.”

This perspective has enormous implications for the way we evaluate ourselves.

How often do we look around and compare our lives with those of others? We see individuals who appear to be advancing, succeeding, and accomplishing remarkable things. We observe their achievements and begin questioning our own worth. What have I accomplished? Such comparisons can gradually undermine our confidence, diminish our sense of self-worth, and leave us feeling inadequate. But they are based upon a fundamentally mistaken understanding of what constitutes genuine achievement.

Another person's accomplishments tell us very little about our own standing before Hashem. We do not know the abilities with which that person was endowed, the opportunities he was given, or the challenges he was required to overcome. And we certainly do not know how Hashem evaluates the effort invested in those accomplishments. The only meaningful question we can ask ourselves is whether we are sincerely striving to fulfill our own potential. Because in the spiritual realm, effort is not merely a means of reaching an objective. It possesses intrinsic value.

Rabbi Yochanan Cohen

Of Shabbos and Winter Nights

Throughout the week, a person is occupied with countless responsibilities. He is working, conducting business, managing his household, and attending to the many demands of daily life. In the midst of this constant activity, he may have little opportunity to reflect upon his spiritual condition. He moves from one obligation to another without pausing to consider whether his actions are drawing him closer to Hashem or gradually leading him in another direction.

The Gemara teaches that one who takes excessively large strides diminishes his eyesight, and that his eyesight is restored through the wine of Kiddush on Friday night (Berachos 43b). This teaching may also be understood allegorically. During the week, a person is constantly taking great strides, rushing from one responsibility to the next. In that relentless movement, he can gradually lose his spiritual vision. His ability to recognize what truly matters becomes obscured by the pressures and distractions of the material world.

When does he recover that vision? When Shabbos arrives.

On Shabbos, a person withdraws from the demands of ordinary work and enters an atmosphere of spiritual tranquility. The constant pursuit of material accomplishments comes to a halt, allowing him to reconsider his priorities and examine the direction of his life. Kiddush marks the beginning of this opportunity, a time when a person can recover the clarity that may have become clouded during the preceding week.

And what of Havdalah, also said over wine, which marks the conclusion of Shabbos? Perhaps its significance lies in reminding us that the spiritual clarity we acquire on Shabbos must not disappear when the weekday routine resumes. We must carry that renewed perspective into the coming week, allowing the inspiration of Shabbos to influence our decisions, our relationships, and our conduct in business.

Shabbos is therefore not merely a day of rest. It is an opportunity to restore our spiritual vision and to recommit ourselves to living with greater awareness of Hashem.

As we enter the winter months, another extraordinary opportunity presents itself. The nights grow longer, providing additional time for Torah study and spiritual growth. Chazal emphasize the unique value of learning Torah at night, teaching that one who occupies himself with Torah during the nighttime merits a special measure of Divine kindness. “Kol ha'osek baTorah balaylah, Hakadosh Baruch Hu moshech alav chut shel chesed bayom—Whoever engages in Torah study at night, the Holy One, blessed be He, extends over him a thread of kindness during the day” (Chagigah 12b).

What a remarkable promise. A person who dedicates the quiet hours of the evening to Torah study merits a special expression of Hashem's kindness throughout the following day. The longer winter nights should therefore not pass without purpose. Every individual, according to his abilities and circumstances, should establish a consistent period of nighttime learning. Whether it is a substantial shiur, a dedicated seder, or even a modest amount of Torah study, the essential objective is to ensure that no night passes entirely devoid of learning.

Indeed, the Rambam (Hilchos Talmud Torah 3:13) emphasizes the importance of nighttime Torah study, noting that although there is a mitzvah to learn both by day and by night, a person acquires the largest portion of his wisdom through learning at night.

This is the opportunity before us. A few minutes of learning may appear insignificant in isolation. Yet over time, they become the foundation of an entirely different year, and no less than an entire life.

May we utilize the kedusha of Shabbos to renew our spiritual vision and the long winter nights to deepen our connection to Torah, thereby meriting ever greater levels of closeness to Hashem.

Rabbi Yisroel Jungreis

Rainbow in the Clouds

After the Flood, Hashem entered into a covenant with Noach and his descendants, promising never again to destroy all living creatures through a worldwide flood. But Hashem did more than issue a promise. He established a visible sign of that covenant: the rainbow, or keshes.

The Torah states, “This is the sign of the covenant that I establish between Myself and you, and every living creature that is with you, for everlasting generations” (Bereishis 9:12). The following Pasuk continues, “I have placed My rainbow in the cloud, and it shall serve as a sign of the covenant between Myself and the earth” (ibid. v.13). Whenever clouds gather over the earth and the rainbow appears, it serves as a reminder of Hashem's enduring covenant with creation.

This promise plays a fascinating role later in Jewish history. When Pharaoh sought to destroy the Jewish people in Egypt, his astrologers warned him that the redeemer of Israel would be associated with water. Pharaoh consequently decreed that Jewish male infants should be cast into the Nile. Chazal (Sotah 11a) explain that the Egyptians deliberately chose water as their instrument of destruction. They understood that Hashem governs the world according to the principle of middah keneged middah, measure for measure, and feared that their actions might bring a corresponding punishment upon themselves. Yet they reasoned that they had nothing to fear from water. After all, Hashem had already promised Noach that He would never again destroy the world through a flood.

Their reasoning, however, contained a fatal error. Hashem had promised not to bring another flood upon the entire world. He had not promised that an individual nation could never be punished through water. And so, when the Egyptians pursued the Jewish people into the Yam Suf, the waters closed upon them, bringing about the very destruction they had believed themselves protected against.

The rainbow thus represents a covenant of extraordinary significance. Yet its appearance carries a sobering message. When we see a rainbow, we recite a special beracha: “Blessed are You… Who remembers the covenant, is faithful to His covenant, and fulfills His word.” On the one hand, the rainbow is a beautiful manifestation of Hashem's faithfulness and mercy. On the other hand, Chazal (Bereishis Rabbah 35:2) explain that its appearance can indicate a time when the world is deserving of judgment, were it not for the covenant established with Noach. Indeed, the Talmud (Yerushalmi Berachos 9:2) relates that during the lifetime of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, a rainbow was not seen. His extraordinary righteousness served as a source of protection for his generation, rendering the rainbow's reminder unnecessary.

But this raises an intriguing question. Of all the possible signs Hashem could have chosen to represent His covenant, why specifically a rainbow? Consider when a rainbow appears. Dark clouds gather overhead and rain descends upon the earth. The sky then becomes obscured, and sunlight seems to disappear. Yet suddenly, rays of sunlight penetrate the clouds, and across the darkened sky emerges a magnificent display of color. The rainbow appears precisely where darkness and light meet.

Perhaps, however, therein lies one of its most profound lessons: darkness does not mean that light has disappeared. It means only that the light has not yet broken through. Even after the most devastating storm, the possibility of renewed brightness remains.

This idea connects to another remarkable dimension of Parshas Noach. In this week's Haftarah, the Flood is described as “Mei Noach,” the waters of Noach (Yeshayah 54:9). Why should the Flood bear Noach's name? After all, Noach was the righteous individual who survived the catastrophe. He obeyed Hashem's instructions, constructed the Ark, and preserved the future of humanity.

The commentaries explain that Noach bore a measure of responsibility for failing to do more on behalf of his generation (see Rashi, Bereishis 6:9; Midrash Tanchuma 5). Although he was personally righteous, he did not succeed in inspiring the people around him to repent and transform their conduct. In this respect, Noach stands in contrast to other great figures in Jewish history who pleaded for mercy on behalf of their people.

Perhaps this helps us appreciate why Noach was required to spend an entire year aboard the Ark caring for the animals. Imagine the extraordinary demands of that responsibility. Day and night, Noach and his family were occupied with feeding, tending to, and caring for an enormous variety of living creatures. Each animal required its own food, its own schedule, and its own particular form of attention. For an entire year, Noach's life revolved around the needs of others. The Ark was not merely a refuge from destruction. It became a place of education in chesed. Noach was being taught that righteousness cannot remain confined to one's personal spiritual accomplishments. A truly righteous individual must concern himself with the welfare of those around him. He must recognize that the struggles of others are his concern as well.

This brings us back to the rainbow. After the Flood, Hashem did not abandon humanity. Despite the corruption that had overtaken the world, He established a covenant guaranteeing its continued existence. The rainbow became a lasting declaration that even after extraordinary destruction, the world would be granted the opportunity to begin again. Perhaps Hashem was teaching Noach something equally important: never give up on another human being. No matter how dark the circumstances appear, no matter how far a person may have fallen, and no matter how discouraging the situation may seem, the possibility of change must never be dismissed.

That is the enduring message of the keshes. Storms may come and darkness may descend and the world may seem frightening and uncertain. But the clouds are never the entire story. There is always the possibility that the sunlight will break through once again.

Rabbi Yisroel Majeski

In Hashem’s Hands

My father would often quote the Chovos HaLevavos who teaches a profound lesson about happiness. Who is the happiest person in the world? Not necessarily the wisest, strongest, or wealthiest, but the one who possesses genuine bitachon in Hashem. Why? Because he knows that whatever happens, Hashem is guiding his life for his ultimate good. Circumstances may seem confusing, difficulties may persist, and questions may remain unanswered. Yet he lives with the conviction of “Kol d’avid Rachmana l’tav avid—Everything Hashem does is for the good” (Berachos 60b).

This is the secret of true happiness. Rather than dwelling on what is missing or complaining about what has gone wrong, we learn to appreciate Hashem’s countless blessings. Genuine happiness comes not from having everything we desire or controlling our circumstances, but from trusting that our lives are always in Hashem’s loving hands.