Small tidbits and Sparks of wisdom

There is a fascinating paradox between wealth and poverty.

When a poor person is worried, unhappy, or depressed, the reason can often be understood. He may struggle to pay his bills, support his family, afford proper housing, obtain what he needs, or simply live without constantly calculating every expense. His lack is visible.

But when a wealthy person is unhappy, a deeper question arises:

What exactly is he missing?

He may have a beautiful home, financial security, access to excellent healthcare, the ability to travel, and enough money to purchase almost anything he reasonably wants. Yet wealth does not guarantee peace of mind. In fact, wealth can create an entirely different form of anxiety.

A poor person who is genuinely satisfied with his portion may possess something that the wealthy person is still searching for. When he receives something additional, he experiences it as a gain and a blessing. His happiness is not necessarily determined by the size of his bank account.

The wealthy person, however, often develops an entirely different set of expectations.

( Two Types of Wealth

There are two very different experiences of wealth.

Generational wealth grows up with security already underneath it. The person may work hard and succeed, but he never experienced building financial security from nothing. His concern is usually preserving and managing what already exists.

Self-made wealth is different. Someone who grew up with little may initially enjoy every luxury and freedom money brings. But the same drive that lifted him from poverty can become a permanent chase—more investments, more growth, more returns.

Eventually, the wealth that was supposed to create security can create anxiety. Losses, poor returns, and missed opportunities disturb his peace even when he already has far more than he needs.

He escaped the anxiety of poverty only to acquire the anxiety of wealth.

Learning how to make money is one skill. Learning when enough is enough may be the harder one.)

Once substantial wealth exists, the money is expected to perform. Investments should produce returns. Businesses should grow. Properties should appreciate. Capital should not remain idle, and certainly should not decline.

A poor person may receive an unexpected $1,000 and feel richer than he was yesterday. A person worth hundreds of millions of dollars can lose several million—or simply receive a much smaller return than expected—and experience tremendous anxiety.

Objectively, he remains enormously wealthy.

Subjectively, he sees a minus.

And sometimes the anxiety becomes greater precisely because the numbers are greater. If hundreds of millions are being spent down without sufficient returns, the person may know intellectually that he has more than enough for his lifetime, yet emotionally he sees his wealth moving in the wrong direction.

Wealth therefore introduces the fear of losing wealth.

Capital also brings responsibility and constant decisions. Where should the money be invested? How much risk should be taken? Who can be trusted? What happens if the market falls? What if the business fails? What if an investment expected to return 10% produces nothing?

The poor person may worry about not having enough.

The wealthy person may worry about not keeping enough, not earning enough, or not growing enough.

This is why wealth and peace of mind are two entirely different possessions.

Chazal say in Pirkei Avos 4:1:

איזהו עשיר? השמח בחלקו

“Who is wealthy? One who is happy with his portion.”

The definition is remarkable. Chazal do not define wealth by how large the portion is. They define it by the person’s relationship with his portion.

If the definition of “enough” rises every time wealth rises, a person can become richer every year without ever arriving at wealth.

A poor person who possesses little but can sincerely say, “What Hashem has given me is enough,” has reached something extraordinary.

A wealthy person who possesses enormous wealth but continually thinks, “I cannot lose this, and what I have must continue producing more,” may still be running.

Bitachon Is the Key

The answer to both sides of this paradox is bitachon.

The poor person requires bitachon because he does not know where tomorrow’s needs will come from.

The wealthy person requires bitachon because wealth gives him the illusion that he already knows where tomorrow’s needs will come from.

Money provides choices. It can provide better housing, healthcare, travel, investments and independence. When the weather is uncomfortable, one can travel elsewhere. When one service is inadequate, another can be purchased. Money creates tremendous ability to manipulate circumstances.

That ability can quietly become a person’s security.

Then the possibility of losing wealth becomes frightening because he is not merely afraid of losing dollars. He is afraid of losing control.

Bitachon changes the entire relationship with money.

The wealthy person begins to understand: Hashem gave me this wealth. Hashem determines whether my investments succeed. Hashem determines whether markets rise or fall. My responsibility is to act responsibly, but my security cannot ultimately come from the number appearing on a financial statement.

And this leads to another great Torah perspective on wealth: tzedakah.

One of the greatest pleasures available to a wealthy Jew should be the ability to give away substantial portions of his wealth willingly and joyfully, while responsibly retaining what he needs so that he does not unnecessarily make himself dependent upon others.

Instead of seeing every dollar leaving his possession as a loss, he can experience giving as one of the purposes for which the wealth was entrusted to him.

The money is not merely accumulated.

It passes through his hands.

There are Torah priorities in giving. A person has obligations toward those closest to him, including relatives and those within his own community, and there is an order of precedence within tzedakah. Supporting poor Jews and supporting Torah and those who dedicate themselves to Torah occupy precious places within the world of Jewish giving.

The point is not simply to dispose of money. Torah requires responsibility and judgment.

The point is to change the relationship with wealth.

A person can possess enormous wealth without believing that every dollar must remain under his control forever. He can enjoy what Hashem has given him while understanding that part of the purpose of abundance is the ability to support others.

That may be one of the greatest tests of wealth.

Can I earn without becoming obsessed with the return?

Can I possess without living in fear of losing?

Can I enjoy without constantly needing more?

Can I give substantial amounts away and actually experience greater pleasure from the giving than from another acquisition?

The ultimate freedom of wealth is not having so much money that one never needs another human being.

The ultimate freedom is when money no longer owns the person who owns the money.

Then wealth becomes a tool rather than an identity.

The poor person needs bitachon to live without knowing exactly where tomorrow’s money will come from. The wealthy person needs bitachon to recognize that despite all his assets, investments and financial planning, tomorrow was never truly under his control either.

Both ultimately stand before the same Hashem.

איזהו עשיר? השמח בחלקו.

Who is truly wealthy?

The one who can enjoy what Hashem has given him without being tormented by what he does not have, and without living in fear that what he has will disappear.

And perhaps an even higher expression of wealth is the ability to look at abundance and understand:

What I responsibly need, I retain. What Hashem has given me beyond my needs brings with it obligations and opportunities. I am not necessarily the final destination of the wealth that Hashem placed in my hands.

That is when wealth, tzedakah, and bitachon come together.

A person can have little and live richly.

A person can have hundreds of millions and live with fear.

The difference is not merely the amount of money.

The difference is what he believes his money is, where he believes it came from, and Who he believes will provide for him tomorrow.

The same principle applies to beauty, intelligence, talent, and every other gift.

A person may be handsome or beautiful yet internally feel unattractive and inadequate. Another person, with fewer natural advantages, may feel confident, grateful, and satisfied. In that sense, the first person possesses the gift but never truly enjoys it.

The purpose of Hashem’s gifts is not merely to have them, but to recognize them, thank Hashem for them, enjoy them properly, and use them for others.

The more a person has—wealth, beauty, intelligence, talent, influence—the more he /she must learn to rejoices in that portion.

Not only his money, but his entire portion in life.

The essence of avelus is not simply sadness over something that happened in the past. True mourning begins when a person realizes that something precious is missing from his life right now.
A person cannot genuinely cry over a loss that he does not feel. Tears come only when there is a real sense of chisaron—an awareness that life is incomplete and that something essential is absent.
This is the purpose of mourning for the Beis HaMikdash.
We have lived in exile for so long that we have become accustomed to it. Life continues. People work, build homes, raise families, celebrate simchos, and enjoy many blessings. It can therefore appear that everything is basically fine.
But everything is not fine.
The Torah teaches us that the world without the Beis HaMikdash is not a complete world. The Shechinah is concealed, prophecy is absent, Klal Yisrael is scattered, and the knowledge of Hashem is not openly revealed. We have become so familiar with this condition that we no longer recognize it as abnormal.
That itself is part of the exile.
The Meaning of Avelus
Avelus means feeling that something is missing. It is not merely remembering that something once existed. It is understanding that its absence continues to affect us.
When a great person passes away, people mourn because the world has lost something. His Torah, wisdom, kindness, leadership, and good deeds are no longer present in the same way. The world is now a different world.
The mourner recognizes that the deceased was not merely one individual among many. He brought something unique into creation, and now that contribution is missing.
That recognition produces tears.
Without recognizing the loss, there can be no real mourning. A person may attend a funeral, sit quietly, or repeat the appropriate words, but genuine tears come only when he understands that the world has become poorer.
The same principle applies to the Beis HaMikdash.
The Beis HaMikdash was not merely a magnificent building in Yerushalayim. It was the center of the relationship between Hashem and Klal Yisrael. It was the place where the Shechinah was openly revealed, where korbanos brought atonement, where the Jewish people gathered together, and where the purpose of life became clearer.
Its destruction was therefore not only the destruction of a building. It was the concealment of an entire spiritual reality.
The Maharal explains that the Beis HaMikdash represented the spiritual center and unity of creation. Its absence reflects a world that has lost its proper order and completeness.
Rabbi Hirsch teaches that the Mikdash demonstrated how every part of human life could be brought into the service of Hashem. Family, wealth, food, work, society, and national life were all meant to be elevated. Without the Mikdash, that ideal remains hidden and fragmented.
The Kli Yakar frequently describes exile as a condition in which Hashem’s Presence is concealed and the Jewish people must search for Him through Torah, faith, and mitzvos. The nation continues to exist, but without the open clarity that once illuminated Jewish life.
Connecting Personal Pain to the Churban
One of the most powerful ideas of Tishah B’Av is that our personal suffering is connected to the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash.
Throughout the year, when a person faces illness, financial pressure, loneliness, family conflict, fear, or disappointment, he usually focuses on the immediate problem. That is natural. The difficulty is directly in front of him.
On Tishah B’Av, however, Chazal ask us to look beyond the individual problem and consider its deeper source.
Why is the world filled with so much confusion and suffering? Why do families experience tragedy? Why are righteous people taken away? Why do people struggle spiritually, emotionally, and physically?
The answer is that we are living in a world without the open presence of the Shechinah.
The Churban is not simply one tragedy among many. It is the spiritual source of the broken condition in which all other tragedies occur.
Rabban Gamliel once heard a poor woman crying over the loss of her husband and her two sons. He cried together with her. He did not see her suffering only as an isolated personal tragedy. He recognized that her pain reflected the deeper condition of Klal Yisrael in exile.
Why are Jewish people suffering in this way?
Because the Beis HaMikdash is no longer standing.
This does not minimize the individual’s suffering. On the contrary, it gives it a deeper meaning. Her tears were real tears over her husband and children, but Rabban Gamliel understood that behind her personal loss stood the larger loss of the entire Jewish people.
Every broken heart is another sign that the world is not yet complete.
The Purpose of Tishah B’Av
Normally, when people face difficulties, they try to remain positive. They seek encouragement, distraction, or practical solutions. That is usually healthy and necessary.
Tishah B’Av is different.
For one day, we do not immediately run away from the pain. We allow ourselves to recognize it. We think about what is wrong in our lives and in the world. But we do not stop with the individual problems. We connect them to their common source—the Churban Beis HaMikdash.
A person understands his own difficulties very well. They are immediate and personal. If he can take those feelings and connect them to the loss of the Beis HaMikdash, he may begin to understand what the Churban truly means.
He begins to realize that the Beis HaMikdash was not something belonging only to ancient history. Its absence affects him today.
His life could be better.
His family could experience greater peace.
His relationship with Hashem could be clearer.
The Jewish people could be more united.
The world could contain less cruelty, confusion, illness, jealousy, war, and suffering.
Something enormous is missing.
That recognition is the beginning of true avelus.
Mourning Is Recognition
The Gemara in Ta’anis 30b states:
“Whoever mourns for Yerushalayim will merit to see her joy.”
Why does the ability to mourn lead to redemption?
Because mourning proves that a person understands the loss. He does not accept exile as the final and normal condition of Jewish life. He recognizes that the present world is incomplete and longs for what should be.
A person who does not feel that anything is missing has little reason to desire redemption. He may say that he wants Mashiach, but his life already feels complete. There is no deep longing because there is no deep sense of loss.
The mourner is different.
He looks at the world and says: This cannot be the final form of creation. The world was meant to be holier, clearer, more peaceful, and more openly connected to Hashem.
That is why his tears are precious.
They are not merely tears over the past. They are testimony that he still believes in the future.
The World That Could Be
If we truly understood what the world would be like with the Beis HaMikdash, mourning would come naturally.
There would be a clearer awareness of Hashem.
Torah would be understood with greater depth.
Klal Yisrael would possess greater unity.
Human life would have greater direction.
Much of the confusion, loneliness, suffering, and spiritual darkness that now fills the world would be removed.
We often say that life is good, and indeed Hashem gives us many blessings. But even a blessed life in exile remains incomplete.
A person may possess health, family, wealth, and comfort and still be missing the central spiritual reality for which creation was formed.
The purpose of Tishah B’Av is to feel that absence.
Not to become permanently depressed, but to awaken.
Not to reject the blessings we have, but to recognize what we still lack.
Not merely to cry over a destroyed building, but to mourn a world that has not yet reached its proper state.
From Mourning to Joy
When the Beis HaMikdash is rebuilt, the word avelus will no longer describe our relationship to Yerushalayim. What was missing will have returned.
The Shechinah will be openly revealed.
The Jewish people will be gathered.
Confusion will give way to clarity.
Distance will give way to closeness.
Sorrow will give way to joy.
Then we will understand how much was missing during the long years of exile. We will look back and see that every sincere tear was an expression of faith—that the broken world was not permanent and that Hashem’s promise of redemption remained alive.
The person who mourns for Yerushalayim is not trapped in the past. He is the one who understands the future.
He feels the loss because he knows what the world could be.
And because he truly feels what is missing, he will merit to see it restored.
יהי רצון שנזכה במהרה לקיום דברי חז״ל:
כל המתאבל על ירושלים זוכה ורואה בשמחתה.
May we merit to witness the rebuilding of Yerushalayim and the Beis HaMikdash, במהרה בימינו, אמן.

When we pray in Shemoneh Esrei, “V’liYerushalayim Ircha b’rachamim tashuv, v’tishkon b’sochah… u’vnei osah b’karov b’yameinu,” the order appears puzzling. We first ask Hashem to return and dwell in Jerusalem, and only afterward ask Him to rebuild the city. Logically, one first builds a house and then enters it. Why, then, do we ask Hashem to dwell there before the rebuilding?
The Ramban, in his introduction to Sefer Shemos, provides the answer. He explains that the redemption from Egypt was not completed when Bnei Yisrael left slavery, nor even when they entered Eretz Yisrael. The true Geulah was achieved only when the Mishkan was built and the Shechinah rested among the Jewish people. The defining feature of redemption is not physical freedom or national independence, but the revelation of Hashem’s Presence among His people.
This understanding explains our prayers. Before we ask for the physical rebuilding of Jerusalem, we first ask for the return of the Shechinah. A city of stone without holiness is incomplete. Only after Hashem’s Presence returns do we ask for the eternal physical structure of Yerushalayim. Spiritual restoration must come before physical restoration.
This principle also explains the famous Gemara in Makkos 24b. When Rabbi Akiva and the other sages saw a fox emerging from the site of the Kodesh HaKodashim, the sages cried while Rabbi Akiva laughed. They saw only destruction, but Rabbi Akiva saw the beginning of redemption. Once the prophecy of destruction had been fulfilled, he knew with certainty that the prophecies of rebuilding and redemption would also come to pass.
The book illustrates this with a powerful mashal. Most people who see an empty, weed-filled lot see only neglect and ruin. A builder, however, sees unlimited potential. Where others see emptiness, he sees the foundation of a future community. Rabbi Akiva viewed the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash in the same way. The spiritual void created by the Churban was an opportunity for Klal Yisrael to fill the world with more Torah, mitzvos, and hashra’as haShechinah.
The lesson is timeless. The final Geulah will not begin merely with buildings, political independence, or physical prosperity. It begins by bringing the Shechinah into our homes, our communities, and our lives. Every act of Torah, every mitzvah, and every increase in holiness prepares the world for Hashem’s Presence. When the Shechinah returns to dwell among us, the rebuilding of Yerushalayim and the eternal Beis HaMikdash will naturally follow.

The three mirrors represent three different levels of understanding reality.

The second picture is the world as it naturally appears to human beings. Everything looks shattered, separate, and disconnected. People appear to live independent lives. Nations rise and fall. Animals, birds, plants, and human beings all seem to exist within their own separate worlds. Wealth, poverty, sickness, health, success, failure, joy, and suffering appear to be unrelated events.

This is how the physical world was created to look.

The Creator placed us into a world in which unity is hidden. Everything appears divided into countless individual pieces. Each person sees only one small fragment and often assumes that this fragment is the entire picture.

But the separation is only external.

In reality, all of creation is bound together. Every person, animal, bird, plant, event, and movement in the world is connected within one complete system. Nothing exists independently. Nothing happens outside the will and knowledge of Hashem. What appears random and fragmented is actually part of one continuous Divine order.

The first picture represents reality as it truly is. The mirror is complete because creation is complete. Every piece has its place. Every event has a purpose. Every creature has a function. The unity may be hidden from the human eye, but it remains the deeper truth of existence.

The third picture represents the work of Torah.

Through Torah study, mitzvos, prayer, reflection, and proper understanding, a person slowly takes the broken pieces and places them back together. The world itself does not change. What changes is the way the person sees the world.

Torah trains the mind to move beyond the external picture of separation. It teaches a person to recognize connections where others see only accidents. It teaches him to see purpose where others see confusion, order where others see chaos, and Divine direction where others see only nature and chance.

This is one of the central differences between the Jewish people and the nations of the world.

The natural worldview accepts the second picture as the final reality. It studies each piece separately. It examines nature, society, economics, psychology, politics, animals, and human behavior as independent systems. Even when connections are discovered, the world generally continues searching within the broken mirror itself.

The Torah-trained Jew is expected to see deeper.

When a Jew is properly tuned to Torah and concentrates on its teachings, he begins to see both the first picture and the third. He understands that reality is united, and he also understands that the purpose of life is to restore that vision within himself.

This does not mean that every Jew automatically sees the complete picture. A person can possess Torah and still think like the fragmented world. Torah must shape his mind, his values, his reactions, and his understanding of events. Only then does he begin to see the pieces returning to their proper place.

The difference is not merely knowledge. It is vision.

The ordinary eye sees many separate creatures. Torah sees one creation.

The ordinary eye sees unrelated events. Torah sees Divine providence.

The ordinary eye sees competing forces. Torah sees different instruments serving one purpose.

The ordinary eye sees a shattered mirror. Torah teaches a person how to recognize the whole mirror that exists behind the shattered appearance.

Picture Two is the world as it appears.

Picture One is the world as it truly is.

Picture Three is the lifelong process through which Torah restores a person’s ability to see that truth.

The world continues to insist that the broken pieces are the full reality. The Torah teaches that they are only fragments of one complete picture.

One of the greatest differences between the living and the dead is not what they leave behind materially, but who they leave behind. A person’s true legacy is his family, his community, and the values that continue after him.

The Torah commands us to support our brother, our neighbor, the widow (almanah), and the orphan (yasom). The objective is not merely to prevent poverty, but to preserve a person’s dignity and allow him to live in a respectable and comfortable manner appropriate to his community. Chazal showed extraordinary sensitivity toward widows and orphans, recognizing that after the loss of a parent, a family should not bear the same burdens as before. They were granted special protections so they could rebuild their lives with dignity.

Today, the Jewish community beautifully continues this tradition. When a father or mother passes away, communities organize parlor meetings, charity campaigns, and fundraising efforts to ensure that the surviving spouse and children are financially secure. This generosity reflects the Torah’s command to care for those who have suffered such a devastating loss.

This compassion is beautiful.

Yet it raises an important question.

Why Does It Sometimes Take a Tragedy?

Why does it sometimes take the death of a parent before the community mobilizes on such a large scale?

The very same father or mother may have struggled for years to pay for food, housing, tuition, medical bills, and basic family expenses. They may have quietly approached the very same people who later organized large fundraising campaigns. While alive, they often received enough to survive, but not always enough to live with the same comfort and dignity as their neighbors.

Then, after their passing, hundreds of thousands—or even millions—of dollars may be raised to secure the family’s future.

This is certainly a beautiful outcome for the widow and orphans. They deserve every bit of support they receive.

But the question remains:

Where was this level of support while the parent was still alive?

The Living Come First

The Torah consistently teaches us to strengthen a person before he falls. Helping a struggling father or mother before tragedy strikes relieves years of stress, anxiety, embarrassment, and financial pressure. It strengthens the marriage, protects the children, and often prevents suffering that can last for generations.

If a family lives in a community where a certain standard of living is considered normal, preserving that family’s dignity while the parents are still alive should be a communal priority whenever reasonably possible.

The World Often Reacts in Reverse

Perhaps this teaches us a much broader lesson.

This world often appears to operate in reverse. Human emotions frequently lead us to respond more strongly after a tragedy than before it.

When a parent passes away, there is a powerful emotional desire to help because the one who would have asked for assistance is no longer here. The deceased can no longer speak for himself, so others naturally become his voice. Rabbis, community leaders, friends, and neighbors rally together on behalf of the widow and orphans. This is a beautiful expression of compassion.

Yet that same emotional response can unintentionally create an imbalance.

When the father or mother was alive and personally asked for assistance, it was easier to respond, “Perhaps someone else can help,” or “Go to another organization,” or to provide only minimal support. Once the parent is gone, however, the same community may mobilize with remarkable generosity.

From a Torah perspective, this should cause us to pause.

The living person standing before us should evoke at least as much concern as the family after his passing. The Torah repeatedly commands us to support our fellow Jew while he is still alive and to preserve his dignity before he falls.

Don’t Let Emotion Alone Set Priorities

Perhaps one of the greatest strategies of the yetzer hara is not necessarily to make us cruel, but to make us react without thinking. It encourages us to follow our first emotional impulse instead of asking what the Torah considers the proper priority.

Not every strong emotional reaction reflects the Torah’s priorities.

Before acting, we should ask:

What does the Torah consider the greatest mitzvah at this moment?

What action will accomplish the greatest good?

Hashem gave us both a heart and a mind. Compassion must be guided by Torah wisdom, not by emotion alone.

Many of our natural reactions are immediate and instinctive. The Torah teaches us to discipline those instincts with thought, judgment, and halachic priorities. Instead of simply reacting to what is most dramatic or heartbreaking, we must ask where our help can prevent suffering before it occurs.

Preventing a family from falling into poverty is often an even greater act of kindness than rescuing them after tragedy has already struck.

A Call to Community Leadership

This is not a criticism of the extraordinary generosity shown to widows and orphans. Their support is one of the Jewish people’s finest qualities and must continue.

Rather, it is a call to communal leaders, donors, and charitable organizations to apply that same urgency to the living.

Sometimes we witness a family that struggled financially during the father’s lifetime become financially secure after his passing because of the generosity of the community.

That generosity is admirable.

Yet it naturally leaves us asking:

What happened to the father while he was still alive?

Could more have been done before tragedy struck?

Perhaps true Torah leadership is measured not only by how we respond after a tragedy, but by whether we recognize suffering before tragedy occurs.

The highest form of kindness is not only rebuilding a broken family—it is strengthening a family while it is still whole.

That is the Torah’s ideal: to preserve dignity, prevent suffering, and support the living before we are called upon to comfort the bereaved.

One of the greatest differences between the living and the dead is not what they leave behind materially, but who they leave behind. A person’s true legacy is the family, community, and values that continue after his passing.

The Torah commands us to support our brother, our neighbor, the widow (almanah), and the orphan (yasom). The objective is not merely to prevent poverty, but to preserve a person’s dignity and allow him to live in a respectable and comfortable manner appropriate to his community. Chazal showed extraordinary sensitivity toward widows and orphans, recognizing that after the loss of a parent, a family should not bear the same burdens as before. They were granted special protections and, in certain circumstances, exemptions from communal obligations until they became established again.

Today, the Jewish community beautifully continues this tradition. When a father or mother passes away, communities organize parlor meetings, charity campaigns, and fundraising efforts to ensure that the surviving spouse and children are financially secure. This generosity reflects the Torah’s command to care for those who have suffered such a devastating loss.

This compassion is inspiring.

However, it also raises an important question.

Why Does It Sometimes Take a Tragedy?

Why does it sometimes take the death of a parent before the community mobilizes on such a large scale?

The very same father or mother may have struggled for years to pay for food, housing, tuition, medical bills, and basic family expenses. They may have quietly sought assistance from the very same people who later organized large fundraising campaigns. While alive, they often received enough to survive, but not always enough to live comfortably or with the same dignity as their neighbors.

Then, after their passing, hundreds of thousands—or even millions—of dollars may be raised to secure the family’s future.

This is certainly a beautiful outcome for the widow and orphans. They deserve every bit of support they receive.

But the question remains:

Where was this level of support while the parent was still alive?

The Living Come First

The Torah consistently teaches that preserving life comes before honoring death.

Helping a struggling father or mother before tragedy strikes relieves years of stress, anxiety, embarrassment, and financial pressure. It strengthens the marriage, protects the children, and often prevents emotional suffering that can last for generations.

If a family lives in a community where a certain standard of living is considered normal, preserving that family’s dignity while the parents are still alive should be a communal priority whenever reasonably possible.

A Call to Community Leadership

This observation is not a criticism of the generosity shown to widows and orphans. Quite the opposite.

Their support reflects the kindness and compassion of the Jewish people.

Rather, it is a call for communal leaders, donors, and charitable organizations to show the same urgency toward the living.

We should not wait until a funeral awakens our compassion when the cries of the living may have been heard quietly for years.

Sometimes we witness a family that struggled financially during the father’s lifetime become financially secure after his passing because of the extraordinary generosity of the community.

That generosity is admirable.

Yet it naturally leaves us asking:

What happened to the father while he was still alive?

What happened to the mother before tragedy struck?

Could more have been done to preserve the family’s dignity before they became widows and orphans?

The Highest Form of Kindness

Perhaps one of the great lessons for every generation is that compassion should not begin only after loss.

The highest form of kindness is to strengthen the living before they become the bereaved.

Supporting a family while the parents are still alive preserves not only their financial stability, but also their dignity, their peace of mind, and the wholeness of the family itself.

When we care for the living with the same generosity that we show the bereaved, we fulfill the Torah’s vision of kindness in its fullest sense.

The Forty-Two Journeys and the Dignity of Paying Your Way

Last week’s parashah, Masei, records the forty-two journeys of the Jewish people through the wilderness. At first glance, the detailed list of every encampment appears repetitive. Yet the Torah records each stop to demonstrate Hashem’s constant supervision. No matter where the Jewish people traveled, how many times they moved, or how hostile the surroundings were, Hashem protected, sustained, and guided them. Their survival never depended on the nations around them, but solely on Hashem.

This theme continues in this week’s parashah. As the Jewish people prepare to pass through the land of Edom, the descendants of Esau, Hashem commands them not to provoke the inhabitants. Instead, they are instructed:

«”You shall purchase food from them for money… and you shall also buy water from them for money.” (Deuteronomy 2:6)»

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that although the Jewish people had wandered in the wilderness for forty years, they were not to appear as poor refugees seeking charity. Hashem had blessed them with possessions and livestock. They were to conduct themselves with dignity, paying for everything they received—even water. They were not to create the impression that they depended upon the goodwill of others.

The connection between these two parshiyos is striking. After forty-two journeys proving that Hashem alone sustained His people, they now enter foreign territory with the same message: continue relying on Hashem, not on the favors of other nations. Pay your own way whenever possible.

This principle extends beyond Edom. A person should avoid becoming dependent on unnecessary gifts and favors. Every gift can create an obligation. A favor accepted today may become an expectation tomorrow. For this reason, King Solomon teaches, “One who hates gifts shall live” (Proverbs 15:27). Chazal praise the individual who prefers independence over unnecessary dependence. This does not apply to legitimate tzedakah or assistance required by halachah, but rather to unnecessary gifts that create obligations.

The Torah teaches that dignity comes from relying on Hashem while acting honestly and responsibly toward others. Paying for what we receive preserves our independence, avoids unnecessary indebtedness, and demonstrates confidence that our livelihood comes from Hashem—not from the generosity of people.

The lesson of the forty-two journeys is that Hashem provided for the Jewish people at every stage of their travels. The lesson of passing through Edom is that even when others are willing to help, one should, whenever possible, pay his own way and remain dependent only upon Hashem.

Ideally, when assistance is needed, the first source of support should be family, neighbors, and the Jewish community—not government programs or public assistance, provided there is no genuine financial necessity. Those whom Hashem has blessed with wealth should view it as a responsibility to help sustain Torah institutions, educators, and families in need. In this way, communities preserve their dignity, strengthen mutual responsibility, and reduce unnecessary dependence on the state.

During the Three Weeks and especially the Nine Days, we are reminded that Judaism does not want us merely to remember a historical tragedy. It wants us to feel that something essential is still missing. The destruction of the Beis HaMikdash is not simply an event that happened nearly 2,000 years ago; it is a present reality. As long as it has not been rebuilt, we are still living in galus.

One of the greatest dangers of exile is becoming too comfortable. Human nature is to search for ways to make every inconvenience disappear. While halachah certainly provides legitimate leniencies when appropriate, a person must be careful that the pursuit of comfort does not replace the feeling that we are still in exile. If galus becomes comfortable, the longing for redemption slowly fades.

Chazal teach that every generation in which the Beis HaMikdash is not rebuilt should view itself as if it had destroyed it. The mourning, the tears, and the daily prayers for its rebuilding are not merely acts of remembrance—they are themselves part of what brings the Geulah. If we stop yearning for the Beis HaMikdash, we become spiritually settled in a place that was never meant to be our permanent home.

This week’s parashah teaches the same lesson.

The Torah commands:

«”אַל־תִּתְגָּרוּ בָם… כִּי יְרֻשָּׁה לְעֵשָׂו נָתַתִּי אֶת־הַר שֵׂעִיר.”
“Do not provoke them… for I have given Mount Seir to Esav as an inheritance.” (Devarim 2:5)»

The Kli Yakar explains that Hashem commanded the Jewish people not to provoke Esav because Esav believed that Yaakov had taken the blessings that rightfully belonged to him. If the descendants of Yaakov would openly display their wealth, prosperity, and success while passing through Esav’s land, it would only strengthen Esav’s belief that “they took what was mine,” increasing his jealousy and hatred.

This teaching extends far beyond that generation. Throughout our long exile, the Jewish people have often lived among nations that viewed Jewish success with suspicion and resentment. The Torah therefore teaches us to carry Hashem’s blessings with humility. Wealth is a gift from Hashem, not something to flaunt.

This does not mean a Jew should hide his Judaism or deny Hashem’s kindness. Rather, it means remembering that success in exile is temporary. We are guests in a world that is not yet complete.

No matter how comfortable life becomes, no matter how much wealth, influence, or security we achieve, our hearts must never become attached to galus. Our true home is Eretz Yisrael, and our ultimate destination is the rebuilt Beis HaMikdash.

When we live with that awareness, our prosperity is accompanied by humility, our success by gratitude, and our daily prayers by genuine longing. It is that yearning—the refusal to accept exile as normal—that keeps alive the hope of redemption.

May we merit to see the rebuilding of the Beis HaMikdash במהרה בימינו, אמן.

“אַל־תִּתְגָּרוּ בָם… כִּי יְרֻשָּׁה לְעֵשָׂו נָתַתִּי אֶת־הַר שֵׂעִיר.”
“Do not provoke them… for I have given Mount Seir to Esau as an inheritance.” (Deuteronomy 2:5) �
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You can incorporate the Kli Yakar’s idea as follows:
Writing
The Kli Yakar explains that Hashem commanded the Jewish people not only to avoid waging war against Esav, but also to avoid conduct that would arouse his hatred. Esav already believed that Yaakov had taken the blessings that rightfully belonged to him. Therefore, if the descendants of Yaakov would display great wealth, prosperity, and success while passing through Esav’s territory, it would only reinforce his belief that “they took what was mine.” Such behavior would provoke jealousy and intensify his resentment.
This lesson extends far beyond the generation in the wilderness. Throughout the centuries of galus, the Jewish people have often lived among nations that viewed their success with suspicion and envy. The Torah therefore teaches a principle of humility: do not unnecessarily flaunt wealth, power, or privilege before those who already harbor resentment. Material blessings are gifts from Hashem, not trophies to display.
This does not mean hiding one’s Judaism or denying Hashem’s blessings. Rather, it means living with modesty, recognizing that our permanent home is not in exile. A Jew should never become so comfortable in galus that he forgets where he truly belongs.
The continued mourning for the Beis HaMikdash, the daily prayers for its rebuilding, and the constant awareness that our real home is in Eretz Yisrael keep this perspective alive. The tears shed over the Churban are not merely remembrance of the past—they are part of the process that brings the future redemption. As long as we genuinely yearn for the rebuilding of the Beis HaMikdash, we affirm that exile is only temporary and that our ultimate destination remains the Binyan Beis HaMikdash במהרה בימינו.

One of the greatest spiritual dangers of wealth is not the money itself, but the illusion of control that money creates. When a person has financial resources, he can choose where to live, what to buy, where to travel, which doctor to see, what food to eat, and how to solve many of life’s problems. Over time, comfort becomes normal, and what was once considered a luxury begins to feel like a necessity.

I once heard Rabbi Ben Shlomo, shlita, explain that one reason wealthy people often find it difficult to give generously to charity is not necessarily greed. Rather, they fear that if they give away too much, they may never regain what they have lost. Beneath the reluctance to give lies a much deeper fear—the fear of losing the security, independence, and control that wealth appears to provide.

The poor person faces a very different test. He has fewer external choices, but he has the opportunity to develop something far greater: mastery over himself. He must control his desires, resist temptation, avoid dishonesty, learn patience, and often be satisfied with much less. His struggle is internal rather than external.

In this sense, wealth and poverty each test a different part of the human character. The wealthy person is tested to see whether he remains independent of his possessions. The poor person is tested to see whether he can remain content despite lacking possessions.

Most people do not seek extravagant luxury. They simply want a normal, comfortable life—a decent home, a comfortable bed, reliable transportation, and the ability to care for their family. There is nothing wrong with these desires. The danger begins when those comforts become part of a person’s identity. Then the fear is no longer simply losing money—it is losing the life to which one has become accustomed.

Money also creates the illusion of self-sufficiency. A wealthy person can often solve problems simply by spending more money. He can seek the finest medical care, purchase healthier food, hire experts, and enjoy conveniences unavailable to most people. If the weather is too hot, he flies somewhere cooler. If it is too cold, he travels somewhere warmer. If he dislikes the service at one hotel, he checks into another. The availability of money gives the impression that almost every inconvenience has a financial solution.

When money is no longer available, however, everything changes. A person is forced to rely on Hashem and, through Hashem, on other people. The poor person has far fewer choices. He may not be able to afford the best healthcare, the healthiest nutrition, or many comforts that others take for granted. His dependence is much more visible. Yet it is precisely this dependence that develops humility, patience, gratitude, and genuine trust in Hashem.

Many wealthy people sincerely say, “Everything comes from Hashem.” Certainly that is true. But the real test is not what we say when our bank account is full. The real test is whether we would still live with the same faith if our financial security disappeared.

Imagine living for thirty-six months on the budget of a poor family. Would we still experience the world with joy? Would we still feel secure? Would we still trust Hashem as completely? Or would we discover that our confidence had quietly shifted from the Creator to our financial resources?

The Torah teaches this lesson through the mitzvah of Shemittah. Every seventh year, the farmer must stop cultivating his fields and place his livelihood in Hashem’s hands. The land rests, but so does its owner. Shemittah is not merely an agricultural law; it is a spiritual exercise. It teaches that neither the land nor the wealth it produces truly belongs to us. Everything is entrusted to us by Hashem.

Perhaps generous charity serves the same purpose. Sometimes a wealthy person should give beyond what feels comfortable—not only because others need the money, but because he himself needs the spiritual exercise. Giving weakens the illusion that money is the source of security. It reminds a person that his identity, confidence, and peace of mind should never depend on his bank account.

In this sense, every significant act of charity becomes a personal Shemittah. By voluntarily releasing part of his wealth, a person frees himself from being controlled by it. Just as the land grows stronger after its year of rest, the soul grows stronger after learning to let go.

The highest achievement is neither wealth nor poverty. It is the ability to remain the same servant of Hashem in either condition. The truly wealthy person is not the one who possesses the most, but the one who would remain the same person even if everything were taken away.

The greatest control is not control over circumstances—it is control over oneself. When money no longer defines a person’s identity or dictates his sense of security, he becomes genuinely free. Then wealth becomes a blessing instead of a master, a tool instead of an idol, and a means of serving Hashem rather than a substitute for trusting Him.

One of the great purposes of life is not merely to exist, but to grow. Hashem placed each person into this world with strengths, weaknesses, and opportunities for self-improvement. Many people naturally prefer comfort and avoid situations that challenge them, yet genuine growth rarely comes from comfort alone.

The first step in that growth is marriage. Living alone allows a person to arrange life according to his own schedule, preferences, and desires. Whether naturally generous or selfish, a person living alone is rarely forced to confront his own limitations. Marriage changes that. A spouse requires patience, compromise, understanding, forgiveness, and constant consideration. It teaches a person to think beyond himself and to build a life with another human being created in the image of Hashem.

In today’s society, many people choose to remain single and instead devote their emotional energy to careers, hobbies, or even pets. While these may provide companionship, they do not challenge a person in the same profound way that marriage does. Marriage is one of Hashem’s greatest tools for refining character.

The second stage is raising children. Children deepen a person’s understanding of sacrifice and responsibility. They help parents appreciate what their own parents endured on their behalf. A child needs attention at inconvenient times. He becomes sick when parents are exhausted, wakes up in the middle of the night, interrupts carefully made plans, and constantly asks for time, patience, and love. These are not interruptions to life—they are part of life’s purpose. They are Hashem’s training ground for developing compassion, humility, patience, and unconditional love.

Marriage is the first classroom; children are the advanced course. Together they transform a person from someone primarily concerned with himself into someone who genuinely lives for others.

For this reason, one should strive to embrace these responsibilities rather than complain about them. Many people desperately wish to marry but cannot. Others long for children and would give almost anything to be blessed with them. Those who have these gifts should recognize them as precious opportunities for spiritual growth, not as burdens.

Instead of asking, “Why is this so difficult?” we should ask, “What is Hashem teaching me through this experience?” When viewed this way, every sleepless night, every sacrifice, and every challenge becomes another opportunity to become a wiser, kinder, and more complete human being.

Marriage and children are not obstacles to happiness. Properly understood, they are among Hashem’s greatest gifts, shaping us into people who are capable of giving, loving, appreciating, and serving Him more completely.