This Succos, we rejoiced with Hashem and felt that sense of safety and bitachon. We wished one another a good year with confidence. Then, at the finale — on Simchas Torah — we learned that we did not merit Divine protection.
We learned that there had been a massive invasion by terrorists, with hundreds of casualties, and so many taken hostage. What happened to our tefillos?
If this question bothers us, we may have been a little bit too simplistic in the way we view bitachon, perhaps even in the way we daven.
The skeptics talk about religion as the “opiate of the masses,” some movement that provides simplistic answers to the most complicated questions and lends its adherents a false sense of security when there’s in fact real danger. That’s true of conventional religion — but it’s not what Judaism is about.
Last week, we spent eight days saying Hallel. Take a closer look at Hallel — at the feelings it expresses — and you find that it’s an emotional roller coaster. In Hallel, we praise Hashem, then call out to Him with desperation. We talk of the wonderful things He does for us, and then beseech Him to save us from our tzaros.
We begin by describing Hashem as “Hamagbihi lashaves” — He sits on High — and yet He comes down to earth to see what takes place there. “Mei’ashpos yarim evyon” — He lifts the needy out of the dumps and seats them among the wealthy benefactors.
And then there’s “B’tzeis Yisrael,” describing how we came out of Egypt and the sea split for us. Then Hallel continues, and the nations ask “ayeh na” — “Where is your G-d?” Why do they ask? After all, He just performed outright miracles.
Well, He doesn’t just perform miracles. He also hides. And in the middle of Hallel, we cry to Him, “ki l’shimcha tein kavod” — for Your sake, Hashem — why should they be asking where You are? Why isn’t Your presence more evident in the world?
And the answer is sort of there.
“Elokeinu ba’Shamayim” — Our G-d is in Heaven, and whatever He wants, He does.
Jews don’t believe that G-d is a candyman. We don’t believe that He just dishes out all sorts of nice things. He wants to give in a way that only G-d can. He builds us. And part of building us means He hides.
Hallel continues, as we toggle from singing to pleading, from brachah to tzarah v’yagon, from “Ana Hashem hoshia na” — a plea for help — to the joyous finale of “Hodu L’Hashem ki tov,” praising Hashem for all the good.
This emotional roller coaster is the story of every individual Jew, and it’s the story of the Jewish nation. Hashem is there on the good days, and He’s the one we call out to on the difficult days. We ask that He smile at us, that He shower us with overt and abundant good. But at the same time, we acknowledge that He and only He knows what’s best for us.
We have to understand that life is complicated. We have to be mature Jews, and we can’t turn Judaism into simplistic answers to complicated questions. We don’t run to Judaism for security. We run to Judaism because it’s true.
Yes, we want to feel safe. But true security stems primarily from the knowledge that Hashem knows what He is doing — that ultimately everything is for the best, whether we know it and understand it or not. True, a lot of what He does is very painful. But there’s a plan — a plan for our people as a whole, and a plan for every individual Jew.
SOmuch for philosophy. From an emotional perspective, the natural state of the human being in this day and age — including the Jew, I’m afraid — is a desire above all for personal comfort and safety.
Yet part of being a mature Jew is understanding that we’re part of the Jewish nation. As much as we crave comfort and safety, we have to be open to feeling the pain of our fellow Jews.
There are Jews in Gaza enduring unspeakable conditions. The future is uncertain to them. There are men, women, children, and soldiers in captivity who understand that their fate is even more complicated. There are so many of our brethren down south who’ve lost family members: husbands, wives, children, soldiers involved in difficult battles.
We’ve got to feel for them. We’ve got to feel their pain. These are our brethren. Some question how we rejoiced and celebrated Simchas Torah, knowing that this was going on. To clarify, this was not the Olympics, where “the games must go on.” We don’t ignore the pain of our fellow Jews; we don’t party while shutting out other people’s suffering.
Our Simchas Torah celebration is avodas Hashem. It’s serving Hashem and feeling close to Him, expressing our love for His Torah, and dancing with the confidence that He knows what He’s doing even though our reality is so very complicated.
Dancing on Simchas Torah this year was an expression of our trust. We trust that things will work out, but in the interim there’s so much pain. We feel both the trust and the pain simultaneously, and that’s what Hallel is all about.
The heart, as you know, contains more than one chamber. We can feel pain and joy and desperation and exultation. What is it that allows us to fuse all those conflicting feelings as one? Only our closeness to Hashem and closeness to Klal Yisrael.
When terrible events happen, we naturally employ some sort of defense mechanism to help us cope. Many of us create an illusion of safety by pinpointing some sort of “reason” why an event happened so we can conveniently exclude ourselves from the pool of victims.
Naturally, this week’s events provide a great opportunity for everybody to blame our terrible losses on their pet causes. Of course, Orthodox Jews will say it’s because most of the nation doesn’t keep Shabbos. Others will say it’s because frum Jews aren’t keeping what they’re supposed to in the right way, that we have to take responsibility for the entire Jewish nation (which is, by the way, a very important attitude).
I don’t want to be a false prophet, to finger one specific failing as the cause of so much tragedy. But Chazal are very open to that. When they discuss the Jewish People during wartime, they tell us there’s one thing that determines whether we will be victorious in battle — and that is whether we’re united. It’s clear from the Gemara that “united” does not mean “we all agree.” United means that we get along with one another; we feel like we’re one people.
The Gemara talks about the days of King Achav, who was one of the wicked kings of the Ten Tribes of Malchus Yisrael. Even though these tribes were led by a wicked king, they triumphed on the battlefield because they had unity.
Without question, we have currently reached an all-time low in this area. In the wake of Israel's conflict regarding judicial reform, its right and the left flanks are completely fractured, delegitimizing one another terribly. We should have seen the writing on the wall.
Now, you may not consider yourself part of that debate, but there’s a need to see to it that Jews know how to talk to one another. True, Jews have always disagreed. On Succos, I mentioned that the succah is meant to remind us of the Ananei Hakavod, the Clouds of Glory that were our Divine protection during our 40-year trek through the wilderness. How did we merit those Clouds of Glory?
We’re taught it was in the merit of Aharon HaKohein. He loved peace. He pursued peace. He loved people, and that love brought them closer to Torah. We see clearly that Divine protection is the fruit of a love of Jews, a love of peace among Jews.
That doesn’t mean that we should sacrifice our values for the sake of peace. What it means is that we learn to love people we disagree with. We learn to talk to people we disagree with. We learn to understand where they’re coming from.
You may be a left-basher, you may have grown accustomed to thinking that liberals are “out of their minds” or “not thinking.” So now you have a new assignment. Where are they coming from? What’s bothering them? What are they afraid of? What are their concerns?
We know that human beings’ philosophies don’t sprout in a vacuum. When you hear hostility or animosity, that’s an expression of an underlying fear. Understand that. Feel for them.
SOwhat should we be doing now?
At a time when so many Jews are in danger, we’ve got to be intelligent and mature. We may be far from the battlefront, but we’re close to the people. We have to feel the pain of our fellow Jews and feel the closeness to Hashem and keep davening to Him. This is not a time, obviously, for idleness or pleasure trips. This is a time when you must feel for so many Jews who are in danger.
And do what you can to feel close to Hashem. Daven. Learn.
What kind of spirit should we be exuding? One of pride. We’re proud to be Jewish, and while we understand that the history of the Jewish nation is that they’re always out to get us — that we’ve always had enemies — we know also that we’ve outlived them all.
Until Mashiach comes, the world is going to hate us. We will always have enemies. And throughout those episodes, Hallel will be repeated again and again. We will continue to voice our conflicting emotions of praise and desperation, joy and suffering, Hodu l’Hashem ki tov along with Ana Hashem hoshia na.
That’s how we live. That’s what it means to be a Jew. We know how to feel pain and sing at the same time — because we’re confident that Hashem knows what He’s doing, and that one day He will finally reveal Himself to his people.
(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 981)
