Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

The Storms of Life

Navigating Our Greatest Challenges

Some years ago, during the final years of my mother’s life, my daughter Shaindy, who was living in Israel at the time, arranged for my mother to be filmed recounting her experiences during the Holocaust. The film, entitled Triumph of the Spirit, chronicled her extraordinary journey through Bergen-Belsen and the years that followed. It opened with my mother looking directly into the camera and declaring, “My name is Esther Jungreis. I lived before the Holocaust, I lived during the Holocaust, and I lived after the Holocaust.”

To understand the significance of my mother’s words, let us turn to this week’s Parsha, Parshas Noach.

We now find ourselves in the aftermath of Simchas Torah, still in the shadows of October 7th. There has been so much pain, so much suffering and so much grief. And we are left asking ourselves a question that has echoed throughout Jewish history: how does one recover from the flood? How does one survive the storms of life and find the strength to rebuild afterward?

Parshas Noach opens with the words, “These are the generations of Noach. Noach was a righteous man, perfect in his generations; Noach walked with G-d” (Bereishis 6:9). Notice something remarkable. Within this single verse, the name Noach appears three times.

Why?

Our Sages (Midrash Tanchuma, Noach 5) teach that Noach witnessed three distinct worlds. He lived in the world before the Flood, he experienced the world during the Flood, and he emerged into an entirely different world after the Flood. Three worlds, three realities and three chapters of a single life.

Noach could have declared, “I am Noach. I lived before the Flood, when the world was consumed by corruption and moral decay. I witnessed a society descending into chaos, a civilization in which violence and lawlessness had become commonplace.”

The Torah describes that generation with the words, “Vatimalei ha’aretz chamas—The earth was filled with violence” (Bereishis 6:11). Consider that expression: chamas. In its straightforward meaning, the word refers to violence, robbery, and injustice. Yet there is another dimension to this word that offers a particularly striking insight.

Every letter of the Hebrew alphabet possesses a numerical value. Aleph equals one, beis equals two, and gimmel equals three. When the numerical values of the letters comprising a word are added together, they produce what is known as its gematria. Sometimes, two seemingly unrelated words share the same numerical value, suggesting a deeper conceptual connection.

And what is the numerical value of chamas? It is 108. Remarkably, the word Gehinnom also has a numerical value of 108. Gehinnom represents a realm of profound suffering and spiritual darkness. And here the Torah describes a world so saturated with chamas that it had become, in a sense, a living Gehinnom.

That was the first world Noach witnessed.

Then came the second world. “I am Noach, and I lived through the Flood. I heard the storms raging outside. I witnessed the destruction of everything familiar. I experienced the terror, the uncertainty, and the overwhelming darkness. I did not know what tomorrow would bring or what would remain when the waters finally subsided.”

And then came the third world. “I am Noach, and I emerged from the Ark. I stepped outside and confronted a world that was no longer the world I had known. Everything had changed. The life I once recognized had disappeared, and I was confronted with the enormous responsibility of beginning again.”

Three worlds. Before the catastrophe, during the catastrophe, and after the catastrophe.

And is that not precisely what my mother was describing when she looked into the camera? “I lived before the Holocaust. I lived during the Holocaust. And I lived after the Holocaust.” She, too, had witnessed three worlds.

And now, as we read Parshas Noach in the aftermath of October 7th, we recognize that we, too, have experienced three worlds.

I am a Jew who lived in the world of October 6th. On October 6th, I could never have imagined the extent of the hatred concealed beneath the surface of supposedly enlightened societies. I could not have anticipated the hostility that would emerge on college campuses, within prestigious institutions, throughout the media, and in international forums. I could not have imagined the atrocities that human beings would perpetrate against innocent men, women, and children. I could not have imagined babies and children being abducted from their homes, families being torn apart, and entire communities being devastated. On October 6th, I did not know what was waiting.

Then came October 7th.

I am a Jew who lived through October 7th. A day of unimaginable horror. A day when the Jewish people witnessed the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust. A day when the magnitude of the brutality seemed almost beyond human comprehension. We watched in disbelief as the reports emerged and we struggled to comprehend the suffering, the destruction, and the terrible loss of life. And whether we were physically present in Israel or thousands of miles away, we experienced that day as members of Am Yisrael, bound together by a shared history, a shared destiny, and a shared grief.

But there is also a third world.

I am a Jew of October 8th. And that is the world in which we now find ourselves. We have emerged into a reality profoundly different from the one we knew before. We have witnessed an alarming resurgence of antisemitism on college campuses and in communities around the world. We have seen institutions struggle, and sometimes fail, to confront hatred directed against the Jewish people. We have watched families endure losses that no words can adequately describe. Fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands have gone to war, and many have never returned. Others have returned, but their lives have been permanently altered.

Consider the figures reported concerning Israel’s wounded soldiers. In just one year after October 7, 2023, more than 12,000 soldiers have suffered injuries, with approximately 51 percent between the ages of eighteen and thirty. Think about what those numbers represent. Behind every statistic is a human being. Behind every wounded soldier is a mother, a father, a wife, a child, or a loved one whose life has been changed forever.

Some soldiers have suffered traumatic brain injuries. Others have lost their eyesight, sustained spinal injuries, or undergone amputations. Many face long and painful journeys of physical rehabilitation. And there are wounds that cannot be seen. Thousands have experienced serious psychological difficulties, including anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress. Can we begin to comprehend what this means for a family? Imagine a mother who sends her son to defend his people. She remembers the strong, confident young man who left home. But when he returns, he is burdened by experiences that have transformed him. She longs to comfort him, to restore his sense of security, yet she cannot reach the places within him where the deepest wounds remain.

Imagine a wife whose husband returns from battle but cannot find peace. He struggles to sleep while his mind is haunted by memories. He experiences fear, anxiety, and anguish that he cannot easily explain. The man who came home is the same man she loves, yet in certain ways he is no longer the person who left. And perhaps most painfully, he may no longer recognize himself.

In that same annual report, approximately 1,500 soldiers sustained injuries on two separate occasions. They were wounded, recovered sufficiently to return to military service, and were subsequently wounded again. Think of the courage, the sacrifice, and the suffering contained within that single statistic.

This is the world in which Am Yisrael now lives.

And so we must ask: how do we go on? How does a nation recover from such profound trauma? How does a family rebuild after devastating loss? How does an individual find the strength to continue when life has been shattered by tragedy?

And beyond the collective suffering of the Jewish people, what happens when the storm enters our own homes? When a person receives a frightening medical diagnosis, loses a loved one, experiences betrayal, faces financial ruin, or confronts a crisis that overturns everything once taken for granted, how does that person survive? How does one find peace when the world seems to be falling apart?

These are not merely philosophical questions. They are the questions of life itself. And the Torah does not simply recount historical events. It offers eternal guidance for the challenges that confront every generation. If we want to understand how to endure life's storms, we must turn to the man who survived the greatest storm in human history. We must turn to Noach.

Within the Torah's account of the Flood, Hashem provides three essential keys to finding inner strength and peace, both for us as individuals and for Am Yisrael as a nation.

The first key emerges from a seemingly simple command. Hashem tells Noach, “Asei lecha teivah—Make for yourself an ark” (ibid. v.14) Why does the Torah include the word lecha, “for yourself”? We know that every word in the Torah is deliberate. There are no unnecessary expressions. If Hashem wanted Noach to construct an ark, He could simply have said, “Asei teivah—Make an ark.” Why, then, “Make for yourself an ark”?

Embedded within these words is a fundamental lesson about surviving life's storms. There are certain things that no one else can do for us. No one can eat for you, no one can sleep for you and no one can breathe for you. And no one can have faith for you.

You cannot outsource your emunah.

Another person may encourage you, inspire you, teach you, and support you. But ultimately, the faith that sustains you through life's darkest moments must become your own. Hashem was telling Noach, in effect, “I am giving you the opportunity to build an ark. But understand that you are not merely constructing a vessel that will carry you through the waters. You are building something within yourself.”

Imagine Noach selecting the wood, measuring the beams, lifting the tools, hammering the nails, and laboring day after day. Every movement required effort. Every stage demanded patience. Every obstacle called for perseverance. And through that process, Noach was not only constructing the physical structure of the Ark. He was cultivating the spiritual strength that would enable him to withstand the catastrophe ahead. The work itself was transforming him.

Now imagine if Hashem were to give us that same command today. “Build an ark. A flood is coming.” What would we do? Most likely, within minutes, someone would create a WhatsApp group entitled “Building the Ark.” Immediately, the messages would begin. “I know an excellent architect.” “Let me give you the number of a wonderful carpenter.” “You must speak to this contractor. He does magnificent work.” “I have someone who can manage the entire project for you.”

Before long, we would have a team of professionals, a detailed construction schedule, and perhaps even a committee overseeing the progress. But who would actually be doing the work? Who would be lifting the wood, carrying the beams, and enduring the physical strain? Who would be sweating?

And therein lies the lesson. Spiritual strength cannot be acquired entirely through the efforts of others. It requires mesiras nefesh—personal sacrifice, dedication, and the willingness to invest oneself in the process.

We sometimes imagine that emunah is something we can acquire passively. We listen to an inspiring lecture, read an uplifting thought, or hear someone else's extraordinary story of faith, and assume that their conviction will somehow become our own. But faith does not develop merely because someone else has labored to attain it. We cannot sit comfortably at home, enjoying a slice of pizza and a Diet Coke, while expecting another person's sacrifice to produce within us the strength we need. Genuine emunah must be cultivated. It is developed through effort, through prayer, through reflection, through perseverance, and through the difficult choices we make when life does not unfold as we had hoped.

It is strengthened when we confront uncertainty and nevertheless choose to turn toward Hashem. It is deepened when we face adversity and refuse to surrender our connection to Him. And it becomes part of who we are when we invest ourselves, again and again, in the work of spiritual growth.

That is the message of asei lecha teivah. Build an ark for yourself. Because when the storm arrives, it is not enough to know that someone else has built an ark. You must have built something within yourself that can carry you through the flood.

The Future of the Jewish People

Years ago, I recently read an opinion piece in The Wall Street Journal that left me deeply troubled. The author raised an important question: what will become of the future of the Jewish people? How can we ensure that the next generation remains connected to its Jewish identity and heritage? The proposed solution was to expand programs such as Birthright, Jewish summer camps, and Hebrew schools. These are certainly worthwhile initiatives, undertaken with the best of intentions. But I believe that this approach overlooks something fundamental.

Faith must begin in the home.

We cannot expect to send a child to Jewish summer camp, where he sings Hatikvah and enjoys a few weeks surrounded by Jewish friends, and assume that he will return with an enduring foundation of emunah. A trip to Israel can be inspiring and a Jewish educational program can be transformative. But if the values encountered in those settings are absent from daily life at home, how deeply can they take root? Who is cultivating that child's faith during the remaining ten months of the year?

We cannot simply delegate the spiritual development of our children to teachers, counselors, rabbis, or communal institutions. They can inspire and guide, but they cannot replace the influence of a home in which faith is lived and practiced. Our children need emunah. The next generation needs emunah. Our families, our communities, and our people need emunah. And genuine faith requires consistent, personal investment.

When you attend a Torah class, you are building your faith. When you study, reflect, and challenge yourself to grow, you are strengthening your spiritual foundation. When you embrace a mitzvah that you previously neglected, or discover new meaning and joy in a commandment you have long observed, you are deepening your relationship with Hashem.

Perhaps you did not observe Shabbos before, but now you begin to keep Shabbos. Perhaps there was a mitzvah you performed mechanically, but now you approach it with greater understanding and enthusiasm. Perhaps you attend a Torah class and bring a friend along, discovering not only the beauty of Torah but also the extraordinary bond that unites the Jewish people. Every one of these experiences contributes to the construction of your spiritual life.

But faith cannot flourish through occasional exposure alone. Consider a child who dreams of becoming a concert pianist. Would we tell that child to practice for two months each summer and expect him to become a virtuoso? Would we encourage an aspiring Olympic athlete to train for a few weeks each year and assume that such limited preparation would be sufficient to compete at the highest level? Of course not. Excellence requires discipline, consistency, sacrifice, and years of dedicated effort.

And today, in a very real sense, we are confronting the Olympics of faith. We are living through a period that demands extraordinary spiritual resilience. The challenges facing the Jewish people require more than fleeting moments of inspiration. They demand a faith that has been cultivated, strengthened, and internalized through daily practice.

And that is precisely what Hashem was teaching Noach. “Asei lecha teivah—Make for yourself an ark.” Do not simply summon a carpenter, hire an architect, or ask someone else to undertake the work. Pick up the tools yourself. Measure the wood. Hammer the nails. Labor through the long days and nights. Invest your strength, your energy, and your determination. Because the process of building the Ark is also the process of building yourself.

And the same is true of emunah. You want to develop faith? Study Torah. Strengthen your observance of mitzvos. Attend a shiur. Bring a friend, ask questions and seek to learn. Challenge yourself to grow beyond the person you were yesterday. Immerse yourself in the work of spiritual development. Because ultimately, you cannot outsource your faith. That is the first lesson.

But the Torah offers us a second, equally profound insight.

Hashem commands Noach to build a teivah. What is a teivah? In its immediate context, the word refers to an ark. But in Lashon Kodesh, the Hebrew language, teivah also means a word. And herein lies a remarkable lesson. Hashem is not merely teaching Noach how to construct a physical refuge from the Flood. The language of the command also suggests another kind of refuge, one that every person can create, even amid the most overwhelming storms of life.

Build for yourself a sanctuary through words.

And how do we accomplish that? First and foremost, through tefillah, prayer. Every one of us must learn to speak to Hashem. This does not mean that we must become experts in prayer, understand every word of the siddur, or spend every waking moment engaged in davening. It means that we must cultivate a genuine, personal relationship with our Creator. We must learn to turn toward Hashem, to speak to Him, and to recognize that He is present in every dimension of our lives.

How does Hashem communicate with us? Through His Torah. When we study Torah, we encounter Divine wisdom. We discover what Hashem asks of us, how He wants us to conduct ourselves, and how we are meant to understand the world around us. But how do we speak to Hashem? Through tefillah. Prayer is our opportunity to express our hopes, fears, gratitude, confusion, and deepest longings before our Creator.

And when life becomes difficult, when the storm begins to rage, that relationship becomes indispensable. Consider what happens when someone receives a frightening medical diagnosis. What is the first response? “Find me the best doctor. Who is the leading specialist? Which hospital has the finest reputation? Who can arrange an appointment?” And certainly, we must seek appropriate medical care. Hashem expects us to make responsible efforts to protect our health.

Or consider someone searching for a shidduch. Immediately, people begin calling shadchanim, speaking to friends, pursuing suggestions, and exploring every possible avenue. And that, too, is entirely appropriate. Or perhaps someone has lost a job and is desperately seeking employment. He reaches out to contacts, sends resumes, schedules interviews, and pursues every available opportunity. All of these efforts are necessary.

But there is something we so often overlook. We forget to pray. We become so absorbed in identifying the right doctor, the right shadchan, or the right professional connection that we neglect the One upon whom every outcome ultimately depends. We forget that no human effort can succeed without Hashem's will.

Of course we must act. We must pursue the practical means through which blessing may come. But our efforts must be accompanied by the recognition that Hashem is the ultimate source of every blessing. And so the Torah tells us, asei lecha teivah. Create a refuge through your words. Learn to speak to Hashem.

When you are frightened, speak to Him. When you are uncertain, turn to Him. When you are overwhelmed by circumstances beyond your control, pour out your heart before Him. You may not understand why something is happening. You may not know what tomorrow will bring. You may have questions for which there are no immediate answers. But you can still pray. And through prayer, you can discover that even when the world around you feels unstable, your relationship with Hashem remains an enduring source of strength.

Yet there is another dimension to the word teivah. Our words are not only instruments of prayer. They are also the means through which we shape our relationships, our families, and our communities. And here, too, the Torah teaches us something essential about surviving life's storms.

Words have the power to build worlds, and words have the power to destroy them.

Think about how many painful situations begin with a single sentence. A person loses his temper and says something cruel. In a moment of frustration, he utters words he never truly intended. Perhaps he regrets them almost immediately, but the damage has already been done. The words cannot simply be retrieved.

An insult can fracture a friendship. A careless remark can wound a child. A harsh accusation can undermine a marriage. A few moments of gossip can destroy a reputation that took decades to establish. That is why Judaism places such extraordinary emphasis on shemiras halashon, guarding one's speech. The prohibitions against lashon hara, gossip, and slander are not merely rules governing polite conversation. They protect the very fabric of Jewish communal life. Because we are not simply a collection of individuals who happen to share a religion. We are Am Yisrael. We are one family. And when one Jew speaks disparagingly about another, something within that family is weakened.

Imagine attending a Torah class, enjoying the warmth of the community, and then leaving the room only to begin criticizing the people who were present. “Did you see what she was wearing?” “She is such a snob.” “Do you know what her husband does?” “Have you heard what is happening in that family?” What have we accomplished? We may have spent an hour studying Torah, but with a few careless words, we have undermined the very unity that Torah is meant to cultivate. We have taken the bonds that connect us and begun to tear them apart.

And if there is one lesson that our experience as Jews of October 8th has reinforced, it is how desperately we need one another. We have witnessed how quickly the world can become hostile, how fragile the security we once took for granted can be, and how essential it is for the Jewish people to stand together.

In times of crisis, who feels the pain of another Jew as deeply as a fellow Jew? Who mourns with the bereaved, worries about the missing, prays for the wounded, and opens a home to a family displaced by war? We have seen Jews arrive from Eretz Yisrael, sometimes with little more than the clothes they were wearing, and be welcomed into the homes of people they had never met. Why? Because they are family.

They do not need a personal introduction or a longstanding friendship. Their shared identity as members of Am Yisrael is enough. And if we are indeed one family, then we must understand the terrible damage caused when we speak against one another.

Consider what every parent finds especially painful. It is watching one child attack another. One sibling belittles the other. One constantly complains about the other. One child speaks cruelly, while the other responds with anger and resentment. The atmosphere of the entire home becomes poisoned.

You can take that family to the most magnificent restaurant, serve the finest food, or arrange a vacation in the most beautiful destination imaginable. But if the children spend the entire time fighting, what pleasure remains? The food loses its appeal and the scenery loses its beauty. The vacation becomes an ordeal.

And the same is true when a husband and wife are constantly quarreling. They may be surrounded by every imaginable comfort, but when their words become weapons, even the most beautiful surroundings cannot bring them peace. Because peace is not determined merely by where we live or what we possess. It is profoundly influenced by how we speak to one another. Our words create the emotional atmosphere of our homes and determine whether those closest to us feel respected or diminished, cherished or rejected, secure or afraid.

And what is true of an individual family is equally true of Am Yisrael. When we speak with compassion, dignity, and understanding, we strengthen the bonds that unite us. When we indulge in ridicule, gossip, and needless criticism, we weaken those bonds. We can build our world with words. Or we can destroy it with words. And remarkably, this lesson is already hinted at in Hashem's command to Noach.

“Asei lecha teivah.” Build an ark. Build a sanctuary of prayer. And build a world in which your words become instruments of blessing rather than destruction.

For just as the physical Ark protected Noach from the raging waters outside, the words we choose have the power to create an atmosphere of holiness, security, and peace within our homes and communities. The question is whether we will use those words to construct a refuge—or to unleash another storm.

The Power of Speech

Consider how extraordinary the Torah is, and how profoundly its wisdom speaks to every generation. When Hashem commands Noach to construct the Ark, He provides precise measurements for its dimensions. The Torah states that the Ark must be 300 amos in length, 50 amos in width, and 30 amos in height. Why does the Torah need to tell us these measurements? What eternal lesson can we derive from the precise dimensions of a vessel constructed thousands of years ago?

To appreciate the significance of these numbers, we must return to the concept of gematria, the numerical value assigned to each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. The number 300 corresponds to the letter shin. The number 50 corresponds to the letter nun. And the number 30 corresponds to the letter lamed.

Now consider what happens when we rearrange these three letters. They spell the word lashon, tongue. What an extraordinary message. Hashem is teaching us that if we wish to construct a teivah, a sanctuary capable of protecting us from the storms of life, we must begin by guarding our tongues.

Indeed, our Sages (Yoma 9b) teach that the destruction of the Second Beis Hamikdash was rooted in sinas chinam, baseless hatred among Jews. And the Gemara (Gittin 55b-56a) recounts a tragic episode that illustrates just how devastating the consequences of such hatred can become. It is the famous story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza.

A wealthy man was preparing a banquet and instructed his servant to invite his friend Kamtza. But the servant mistakenly invited Bar Kamtza, a man whom the host intensely disliked. When Bar Kamtza arrived, he believed that perhaps their differences had finally been reconciled. He took his seat among the guests, hoping to enjoy the celebration.

But when the host discovered his presence, he publicly demanded that Bar Kamtza leave. Imagine the humiliation. Bar Kamtza pleaded with him and offered to pay for whatever he had eaten and drunk. When that failed, he offered to pay for half the banquet. Finally, in desperation, he offered to cover the cost of the entire affair, if only he would be permitted to remain and avoid public disgrace.

But the host refused. He insisted that Bar Kamtza leave, humiliating him before the assembled guests. And the Sages who were present did not intervene. That episode of public humiliation, compounded by the failure of others to speak up, set in motion a chain of events that the Gemara associates with the destruction of Yerushalayim and the Beis Hamikdash.

Consider the enormity of that lesson. A moment of cruelty and a refusal to show compassion and instead sacrifice a person’s dignity before an audience, and the consequences extended far beyond the individuals involved.

The destruction of the Second Beis Hamikdash was not merely the result of external enemies. It reflected a profound breakdown in the relationships among the Jewish people. We had failed to recognize the sanctity of one another.

And that is why the Torah's message concerning speech is so essential. If we want to rebuild our homes, strengthen our communities, and contribute to the spiritual restoration of Am Yisrael, we must begin with the way we speak. We must learn to communicate with kindness, dignity, patience, and restraint.

And this lesson becomes especially important when we are experiencing personal hardship. Because suffering does not give us permission to inflict suffering upon others. You may be enduring tremendous pressure. You may be frightened, exhausted, disappointed, or overwhelmed. You may be carrying burdens that those around you cannot begin to understand. But the people who love you should not have to become the casualties of your pain.

Your children should not have to suffer because you are anxious. Your spouse should not become the target of your frustration. Your friends should not be wounded because you are struggling with circumstances beyond your control. Certainly, we are human. We experience moments of weakness, and sometimes our emotions overwhelm us. But we must recognize that the words we speak during those moments can either deepen the darkness or help restore the light.

And so Hashem tells Noach: Asei lecha teivah. Build an ark. Build a sanctuary. Guard your words. Because the tongue can become an instrument of destruction, or it can become a source of blessing. That is the second key to surviving life's storms.

And now we come to the third.

Hashem instructs Noach, “Tzohar ta'aseh lateivah—You shall make a tzohar for the Ark” (Bereishis 6:16). What is a tzohar? Rashi, citing our Sages (Bereishis Rabbah 31:11), explains that there are two interpretations. According to one, the tzohar was a window that allowed light to enter the Ark. According to the other, it was a precious stone that illuminated the interior. Either way, its purpose was to bring light into a place that would otherwise have been engulfed in darkness.

But this raises an interesting question. If Hashem intended Noach to construct a window, why did He not simply use the familiar Hebrew word chalon, meaning window? Why does the Torah employ the unusual expression tzohar?

Once again, the beauty of Lashon Kodesh reveals a profound insight. Consider the Hebrew letters comprising the word tzohar (tzadi-hei-rei). When those letters are rearranged, they form the word tzarah (tzadi-reish-hei), trouble, distress, or adversity. The very same letters that describe a source of illumination can also describe a source of suffering.

And therein lies the lesson we can learn about confronting life's difficulties. Every person must decide what to do with the tzarah that enters his life. When we encounter hardship, disappointment, or tragedy, we cannot always control the circumstances that confront us. We cannot always prevent the storm, determine its intensity, or decide how long it will last. But we do have choices about how we respond.

We can become so consumed by our suffering that it obscures every remaining source of meaning, goodness, and blessing. Or we can struggle to discover, even within our pain, an opportunity to bring light into our lives and the lives of others. We can allow the tzarah to overwhelm us, or we can endeavor to transform it into a tzohar.

I learned this lesson from my father z”l in a way that I will never forget.

Many years ago, I was teaching a class in the Hineni building. I had just finished speaking and was making my way down the staircase when I saw my mother coming up the steps. The moment I looked at her, I knew something was terribly wrong. Her face was ashen. The color had drained from her cheeks, and there was an expression in her eyes that I had never seen before. “Ima,” I asked, “what happened?” A single tear rolled down her face. “I just spoke to Abba,” she said. “He went to the doctor, and the prognosis is very serious.” That was the day we learned that my father was gravely ill.

I was stunned. Immediately, I wanted to speak to him. “Where is Abba now?” I asked my mother. “I don't know,” she answered. “He's not picking up the phone.” I hurried to my car and began calling him. Again and again, I dialed his number. No answer. I called once more. Still nothing.

As I drove, my mind raced. Where could he be? What does a person do after receiving such devastating news? Where does someone go when a doctor tells him that his life may be in danger? Perhaps he had gone somewhere to be alone. Perhaps he was sitting in a darkened room, trying to comprehend what he had just been told. Perhaps he was overcome with anguish, anger, or fear.

I could imagine so many possibilities. But I could not reach him.

Finally, I arrived home. As I pulled into the driveway, I glanced toward the house. The curtains were open, and through the window I could see two figures seated at my dining room table. I looked more closely. There was my father. And sitting beside him was my young son, Moshe Nasan.

They were learning Torah together.

For a moment, I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. My father had just received a devastating medical prognosis. His future was suddenly filled with uncertainty. And yet, there he was, sitting peacefully with his grandson, immersed in Torah study. I hurried inside. “Abba,” I asked, “are you okay?”

My father looked up at me. And then he smiled. It was the kind of smile that could illuminate an entire room. “Of course I'm okay,” he answered. “Look who's sitting next to me. This is the best place in the world for me to be.”

I have never forgotten those words. At that moment, my father taught me what it means to transform a tzarah into a tzohar. He could not change the diagnosis. He could not erase what the doctor had told him. He could not guarantee what tomorrow would bring. But he could choose how to spend that moment.

He could have withdrawn into himself, overwhelmed by fear and despair. He could have spent the afternoon lamenting the injustice of his circumstances, consumed by anger over what might lie ahead. And certainly, no one could have blamed him for experiencing those emotions.

But my father chose something else. He chose to sit with his grandson. He chose to learn Torah. He chose to fill a moment of profound uncertainty with love, connection, and spiritual purpose. He understood that although he could not control the length of his life, he could still determine how he would live the moments entrusted to him. He could make each day meaningful. He could make each encounter precious. He could make each remaining opportunity count. And that is what he chose to do.

My father did not deny the reality of his suffering. He did not pretend that the diagnosis was insignificant or that the future held no uncertainty. Rather, he refused to allow his suffering to extinguish the light that was still available to him.

In the midst of his tzarah, he created a tzohar.

And that is the third lesson Hashem teaches us through Noach. When the world outside is engulfed in darkness, we must search for ways to bring light into the Ark. Sometimes that light comes through Torah study. Sometimes it comes through prayer. Sometimes it emerges through an act of kindness, a moment of gratitude, or the simple decision to spend meaningful time with someone we love.

We cannot always remove the darkness. But we can strive to illuminate the space in which we find ourselves. And sometimes, the most extraordinary expression of faith is not a dramatic declaration or a miraculous event. Sometimes it is a grandfather, having just received devastating news, sitting at a dining room table and learning Torah with his grandson. That is how we begin to transform a tzarah into a tzohar. That is how we bring light into the darkness.

The Hero Gene

Let me share with you the extraordinary story of a woman named Dana Cohn, whose experience embodies the remarkable strength and spirit of Am Yisrael.

Dana lived with her husband, Aviad, and their six children in Shlomit, a small religious community in southern Israel, just a few kilometers from Gaza and close to the Egyptian border. She described her community as one of the most beautiful places imaginable. The land was lush and fertile, producing pineapples, sweet cherry tomatoes, lychees, and an abundance of other fruits. To her, this was the very fulfillment of the Torah's description of Eretz Yisrael as an eretz zavas chalav u'dvash, a land flowing with milk and honey. It was a place of extraordinary beauty, a community filled with life, faith, and promise.

Then came October 7th.

When gunfire erupted that morning, Aviad learned that a neighboring community was under attack and desperately needed assistance. He and three other members of Shlomit's security team made a courageous decision. Rather than remain within the relative safety of their own community, they would go to the aid of their neighbors. Before leaving, Aviad instructed his wife and their six children to remain inside their safe room. And then he went out to defend his fellow Jews. He never returned.

Later that day, Dana looked out her window and saw soldiers approaching her home. She understood immediately why they had come. But before allowing them inside, she stopped them. “Please don't come in yet,” she said. “I need to speak to my children first.”

Imagine that moment. A mother of six, suddenly confronted with the knowledge that her husband had been killed. Her children were about to learn that their father would never again walk through the door. And she had to find the words to tell them.

Dana gathered her children together. She reminded them of the sign hanging at the entrance to their home, inscribed with words from Tehillim: “Hafachta mispedi l'machol li; pitachta saki va'te'azreini simchah—You transformed my mourning into dancing; You removed my sackcloth and girded me with joy” (Tehillim 30:12). These were not merely beautiful words displayed upon a wall. They expressed the spiritual foundation upon which their home had been built. And now, in the darkest moment of their lives, Dana drew upon those words to give her children strength.

She told them that their father had died defending Am Yisrael and Eretz Yisrael. Their father was a hero. But then she told them something even more remarkable. The heroism that had defined their father, she explained, was also part of them. They carried within themselves what she called a “hero gene.” And because they were his children, they, too, possessed the capacity to live with extraordinary courage.

They would honor their father's memory not by surrendering to despair, but by choosing life. They would continue to live with purpose, with strength, and with joy, just as their father would have wanted. They would never forget who they were, where they came from, or the values for which their father had given his life. And they would face the future together.

Consider the magnitude of that moment. Dana had just suffered a devastating loss. Her husband had gone out to save others, and now she was left to raise six children without him. The four men from Shlomit who went to assist the neighboring community were the four members of their community killed that day.

How easily she could have become consumed by questions. Why did this happen to us? Why did my husband have to leave? Why could he not have remained at home with his family? Why did he have to risk his life for people in another community?

These would have been entirely understandable questions. No one could have blamed her for feeling overwhelmed by grief, anger, or despair. But in that moment, she chose to give her children something that would help sustain them through the years ahead. She gave them a language of courage. She gave them a sense of identity. She gave them the conviction that although their lives had been shattered, their future did not have to be defined solely by tragedy. “You have a hero gene,” she told them. “You are your father's children. You will choose life and you will choose joy. And we will find the strength to continue together.”

That is what it means to transform a tzarah into a tzohar.

Does this mean that the pain disappears? Of course not. Does it mean that a grieving wife will no longer cry for her husband, or that children will no longer ache for the father they have lost? Certainly not. Faith does not erase grief. Courage does not eliminate suffering. And resilience does not mean that we are unaffected by tragedy. Rather, resilience means recognizing that even in the presence of profound pain, we retain the capacity to live meaningfully. We can grieve and still find moments of joy. We can suffer and still discover purpose. We can carry an irreplaceable loss and nevertheless continue to build a life filled with love, dignity, and spiritual strength.

That is one of the most precious gifts we can give ourselves and our children. The ability to confront adversity without allowing it to extinguish everything beautiful and meaningful within us.

And now we can appreciate the three extraordinary lessons that emerge from the Torah's account of Noach.

First, asei lecha teivah—build an ark for yourself. Faith requires personal effort. We cannot delegate our spiritual development to others and expect their accomplishments to sustain us. We must invest ourselves in Torah, mitzvos, and the daily work of cultivating emunah.

Second, teivah also means a word. We must learn to use our words to create a sanctuary of prayer, speaking to Hashem and developing a personal relationship with Him. At the same time, we must guard our speech, recognizing that our words can either strengthen or destroy the relationships upon which our lives depend.

And third, tzohar ta'aseh lateivah—bring light into the Ark. When darkness surrounds us, when the storms of life threaten to overwhelm us, we must search for opportunities to transform suffering into meaning, adversity into growth, and despair into renewed purpose.

These are three essential foundations for surviving the floods of life. Personal responsibility. The power of prayer and speech. And the courage to bring light into darkness.

But there is another dimension to the story of Noach, one that challenges us to look beyond our own survival. And when I first encountered this teaching in the Zohar, it took my breath away.

The Zohar describes what happened when the Flood finally ended and Noach emerged from the Ark. Imagine the scene. For months, Noach had been enclosed within the teivah, protected from the raging waters outside. He knew that the world had been devastated. He understood that the Flood had destroyed the civilization he had once known.

But knowing something intellectually is very different from confronting it with one's own eyes.

When Noach finally stepped outside, the sight was overwhelming. The beautiful, flourishing world he had known was gone. The people were gone. The communities were gone. The trees, the fields and the familiar landscapes had been swept away. Where there had once been life, there was devastation. Where there had once been a thriving civilization, there was silence. The world had become an expanse of destruction and desolation.

And Noach could not contain himself. He turned toward Hashem and cried out. How could this have happened? How could the Merciful One have allowed such overwhelming destruction? How could an entire world have been lost?

And then came Hashem's response. The Zohar relates that Hashem rebuked Noach with the words, “Foolish shepherd!”

What an extraordinary expression. Hashem was telling Noach, “When I informed you that you were righteous and that I intended to bring a Flood upon the world, what did you do? I warned you of the impending destruction. I gave you time to prepare. I instructed you to construct an ark. But why did I allow so much time to pass? So that you would recognize the danger confronting humanity and plead for mercy on its behalf. So that you would pray for the people around you. So that you would cry out for the salvation of the world.

“But once you learned that you and your family would be protected within the Ark, you occupied yourself with your own survival. You built the Ark and you prepared for the Flood. You ensured that you would be saved. But where were your prayers for everyone else? And now, after the destruction has occurred, you turn to Me and speak of mercy? Why did you not plead for mercy before the world was destroyed?”

What a devastating rebuke. Noach was a tzaddik. The Torah itself testifies to his righteousness. He obeyed Hashem's instructions and faithfully constructed the Ark. And yet, according to the Zohar, something essential was missing.

He had concerned himself with his own salvation, but had not sufficiently pleaded for the salvation of others. He had built an ark for himself, but had failed to extend his concern to the world beyond its walls. And that is why Hashem called him a “foolish shepherd.” A true shepherd does not concern himself only with his own safety. A true shepherd cares for the entire flock. When one sheep is endangered, he does not simply retreat to safety and abandon it. He searches for it and he struggles to protect it. He does everything within his power to bring it home.

And if this is true of a shepherd caring for his flock, how much more must it be true of our responsibility toward our fellow Jews?

The lesson is both profound and unsettling. It is not enough to build an ark that protects ourselves and our families. We must also care about those who remain outside. It is not enough to strengthen our own emunah while remaining indifferent to the spiritual struggles of others. It is not enough to ensure that our children receive a Jewish education while ignoring the countless Jewish children who are growing up without a meaningful connection to their heritage. It is not enough to live within the warmth of our own communities and assume that the future of Am Yisrael will somehow take care of itself.

We must look beyond the walls of our own teivah.

And this brings us to one of the most urgent challenges confronting Jewish life today. Consider the state of Jewish continuity in America. Studies have documented extraordinarily high rates of intermarriage among Jews who do not identify as Orthodox, together with significant differences in the importance that various segments of the Jewish population attach to transmitting Jewish identity to future generations.

In the figures I encountered, approximately 70 percent of marriages among non-Orthodox Jews involved a non-Jewish spouse. Another set of statistics suggested that 45 percent of religiously affiliated Jews considered it very important that their grandchildren be Jewish, compared with only 4 percent among Jews with little or no religious affiliation.

Think about what these numbers suggest. What will become of Jewish life in America if successive generations lose their connection to Torah, to Jewish identity, and to the traditions that sustained our ancestors for thousands of years? What happens when Jewish children grow up without understanding the meaning of Shabbos, the beauty of mitzvos, or the extraordinary spiritual inheritance that belongs to them? What happens when young Jews no longer recognize themselves as part of a people whose history stretches back to Avraham Avinu and Har Sinai?

We are confronting a profound challenge of Jewish continuity. And the question is not merely what will happen to those who are drifting away. The question is what responsibility we bear toward them. The Zohar is asking us the very same question that Hashem asked Noach. You have built your Ark and you have created a home filled with Torah. You have protected your children and cultivated your own spiritual life. But what about everyone else?

What about the Jewish families who have never experienced the beauty of a Shabbos table? What about the young people who have never been introduced to the depth and wisdom of Torah? What about the Jews who are searching for meaning, identity, and belonging, but do not know where to begin? Are we content to remain safely within our own teivah while others struggle outside? Or will we recognize that the future of Am Yisrael demands something more from us?

Survival alone is not enough. We must also learn how to care for those who have not yet found their way into the Ark.

Whom Can I Help Save?

While we confront the challenges of Jewish continuity in America, our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael are enduring unimaginable suffering. The pain is profound, and its consequences extend far beyond those directly affected.

And so we must ask ourselves a difficult question. Can we live through the storms of our generation, emerge as Jews of October 8th, and simply be satisfied that our own lives remain relatively secure? Can we look around at the suffering of our people, at the challenges confronting Jewish continuity, and conclude that as long as our own families are protected, we have fulfilled our responsibility? Is it enough that we have built a comfortable teivah for ourselves while so many others remain exposed to the flood?

We must ask ourselves what we can do to strengthen another Jew, to bring someone closer to Torah, or to alleviate the suffering of those around us. Perhaps it means inviting someone to our home for Shabbos. Perhaps it means encouraging a friend to attend a Torah class. Perhaps it means reaching out to someone who feels isolated, supporting a family in crisis, or helping another Jew discover the beauty of his heritage.

These may appear to be small gestures, but their significance can be immeasurable. We cannot be content merely because we ourselves are spiritually secure. We must recognize that we bear responsibility for one another.

And this brings us to a question that lies at the very heart of our discussion. Am I a Noach, or can I become something greater?

To understand what that means, consider a remarkable teaching concerning the relationship between Noach and Moshe Rabbeinu. The Torah and our Sages provide several striking connections between these two towering figures.

According to a teaching found in the mystical tradition of the Arizal, Noach's soul required a further tikkun, a spiritual rectification, because he had not sufficiently pleaded for the salvation of his generation. In Jewish mystical thought, this concept is associated with gilgul, the return of a soul to complete an aspect of its spiritual mission. And according to this interpretation, Noach's soul returned in Moshe Rabbeinu.

At first, the connection may seem surprising. What do Noach and Moshe have in common? But when we examine their lives, we discover remarkable parallels.

Noach was saved from the waters of the Flood by being placed inside a teivah, an ark. Moshe, too, was saved from the waters of the Nile by being placed inside a teivah. Both were preserved from a decree of destruction through a vessel bearing precisely the same Hebrew name.

And there is another fascinating connection. Who rescued Moshe from the Nile? Basya, the daughter of Pharaoh. The letters of the word teivah (tav-yud-beis-hei) when rearranged, form the name Basya. The very word describing the vessel that saved Noach also contains the name of the woman who rescued Moshe.

These parallels suggest a profound spiritual relationship between the two figures. But the most important connection is not found in the circumstances of their survival. It is found in the difference between their responses when the lives of others were threatened.

Consider what happened after the sin of the Golden Calf. Moshe had ascended Har Sinai to receive the Torah. But while he was on the mountain, the Jewish people constructed the Golden Calf and descended into idolatry. Hashem told Moshe to descend, for the people had become corrupted.

And then Hashem presented Moshe with an extraordinary proposition. The Jewish people would face destruction, and a new nation would emerge from Moshe himself.

Imagine what Moshe was being offered. He could become the founder of an entirely new people. His descendants would carry forward the Divine mission, and he would stand at the beginning of a new chapter in history. He could have accepted. He could have reasoned that the Jewish people had betrayed Hashem, that they had demonstrated their unworthiness, and that beginning anew would be the most appropriate course.

But Moshe did not respond that way.

Instead, he pleaded for the Jewish people. He defended them. He invoked Hashem's promises to the Avos and he begged for forgiveness. And then he uttered one of the most extraordinary declarations in the entire Torah: “And now, if You will forgive their sin—but if not, erase me, please, from Your book that You have written” (Shemos 32:32). Consider the magnitude of those words. Moshe was saying, in effect, “Hashem, if the Jewish people cannot be forgiven, then I do not wish to be remembered apart from them. If they are to be erased, erase me as well.”

He refused to separate his destiny from the destiny of his people. He would not accept personal greatness at the expense of Am Yisrael.

And herein lies the profound distinction between Noach and Moshe. Noach accepted the promise of his own survival without sufficiently pleading for his generation. Moshe, by contrast, refused the promise of his own exaltation unless his people were spared. Noach built an ark to preserve himself and his family. Moshe placed his own future on the line for the salvation of the entire Jewish nation. And now consider another remarkable connection.

Moshe's words were, “Mecheini na—Erase me, please.” The letters of mecheini (mem-ches-nun-yud), when rearranged, form the words mei Noach, “the waters of Noach.” The waters of the Flood are indeed referred to by this expression in Sefer Yeshayah: “Ki mei Noach zos li—For this is like the waters of Noach to Me” (Yeshayah 54:9).

Why are they called the waters of Noach? The expression alludes to Noach's failure to intercede sufficiently on behalf of his generation. And now, through Moshe's declaration of mecheini na, that spiritual deficiency finds its rectification.

Where Noach had not pleaded sufficiently for the world, Moshe pleaded for his people with every fiber of his being. Where Noach had accepted his own preservation, Moshe refused to be preserved at the expense of others. Where Noach had been concerned with surviving the Flood, Moshe demonstrated that true leadership requires a willingness to sacrifice for the salvation of one's people.

This is the concept of tikkun, spiritual rectification. Through Moshe Rabbeinu, the deficiency associated with Noach was transformed into an extraordinary expression of responsibility, compassion, and self-sacrifice.

And now we return to the question with which we must conclude. Am I a Noach or am I a Moshe?

When I look at the world around me, when I witness the suffering of Am Yisrael, when I see Jewish families struggling and Jewish identity weakening, how do I respond? Do I remain silent? Do I retreat into the security of my own home, satisfied that my family is protected, my children are receiving a Jewish education, and my personal spiritual life is intact?

Do I assume that the problems confronting our people are simply too enormous for me to influence? Or do I recognize that I, too, have a responsibility?

Because if I am content merely to protect myself, I risk repeating the very failing for which Noach was rebuked. But if I recognize that my responsibility extends beyond the walls of my own home, then I begin to follow the example of Moshe Rabbeinu. And that is what Hashem asks of us. We must never underestimate the significance of our own actions. We must never imagine that our prayers are inconsequential or that our mitzvos make no difference. Everything matters.

When we see the challenges confronting our people, it is tempting to feel powerless. The problems seem overwhelming, the suffering immense, and the needs far greater than anything one individual could possibly address. But we must never confuse our inability to do everything with an inability to do something.

We may not be able to change the entire world. But we can change someone's world. And we may never fully appreciate the consequences of what we have done.

That is the lesson of Noach and Moshe. It is not enough to survive the Flood. It is not enough to build an ark for ourselves. We must become people who care about those still struggling in the waters.

And so, as we emerge from the storms of our generation, the question we must carry with us is not merely, “How will I survive?” It is also, “Whom can I help save?” Because the true measure of our emunah is not only the strength it gives us to endure our own challenges, but also the responsibility it inspires us to assume for others. And if we can live with that conviction, if we can transform our faith into prayer, compassion, and action, then we will have learned not only how to survive the Flood, but how to help rebuild the world that follows it.

Noach and Moshe in Our Lives

I would like to conclude with a story that brings this entire message into focus.

Years ago, a young man named Maoz, just twenty years old and a student at a yeshiva, fell in battle while defending Eretz Yisrael. His uncle, Rabbi Mordechai Linzer, a distinguished Torah scholar, delivered a heartbreaking eulogy at his funeral.

As he stood before the mourners, he recalled a teaching of our Sages that had occupied his thoughts since the beginning of the war. “Elef lamateh, elef lamateh—A thousand from each tribe, a thousand from each tribe” (Bamidbar 31:4).

The Torah uses these words when describing the soldiers assembled to fight against Midyan. Our Sages (Midrash Tanchuma, Matos 3) explain that corresponding to those who went forth to battle, others were designated to remain behind and pray on their behalf. For every soldier fighting on the battlefield, there was someone engaged in prayer.

The Jewish people understood that a battle is not fought through military strength alone. Those who remained behind also bore responsibility for the soldiers risking their lives. Their prayers mattered, their Torah study mattered and their spiritual efforts mattered.

And so Rabbi Linzer turned toward his fallen nephew and spoke from the depths of his heart.

“When the war began, I thought about this teaching. I understood that for every soldier who went out to fight, someone needed to remain behind and pray. And so, Maoz, I undertook to strengthen myself in different areas of my spiritual life. I sought to grow in Torah, in mitzvos, and in my service of Hashem. I did it for you, Maoz, and for your friends who were fighting alongside you.”

And then, standing at his nephew's funeral, Rabbi Linzer broke down in uncontrollable sobs. “Maoz,” he cried, “I failed you. I failed you, and I failed every one of your friends who was killed. Maoz, I ask you for forgiveness.”

Imagine the depth of that moment. Here was a great Torah scholar, a man who had devoted himself to spiritual growth and prayer throughout the war, standing before his beloved nephew and weeping because he felt he had not done enough. He understood that his nephew had gone to the battlefield to defend the Jewish people, while he had remained behind with a different responsibility. And he took that responsibility with extraordinary seriousness.

His words were not a declaration that he had caused the tragedy. They were the anguished expression of a man who believed so deeply in the power of prayer, and in the responsibility that one Jew bears for another, that he could not help but ask whether he might have done more.

And that brings us back to the question with which we began.

Am I a Noach or am I a Moshe?

Am I content to remain within the safety of my own teivah, satisfied that I and my family are protected? Or do I recognize that my responsibility extends beyond the walls of my home, beyond my community, and beyond the boundaries of my own personal concerns?

We are one people, Am Yisrael, bound together by a shared destiny and an enduring responsibility for one another. And whether our brothers and sisters are living across the street or across the world, their suffering must matter to us. Their struggles must move us. Their future must concern us.

We may not be able to stand beside every soldier on the battlefield. We may not be able to alleviate every family's grief or solve every challenge confronting the Jewish people. But we can pray. We can strengthen our emunah. We can grow in Torah and mitzvos. We can reach out to another Jew, open our homes, speak with kindness, and bring light into a world that so desperately needs it.

And we must never underestimate the difference that even one person can make.

Noach teaches us how to build an ark and survive the Flood. Moshe teaches us that our responsibility does not end with our own survival. It extends to the entire Jewish people.

And so, let us carry one question in our hearts: Am I a Noach, or am I a Moshe? Because what we do, what we say, how we pray, and how we live can make a difference for our brothers and sisters, wherever they may be.