Moshe’s Matteh, Magic Wands, and the Power We Forget We Have

It was one remarkable piece of wood.

A staff that turned into a snake - and then swallowed other snakes. A staff that unleashed plagues, split the sea, and drew water from a rock.

Moshe’s matteh accompanies him at the most pivotal moments of Jewish history. The Sages teach that it did not begin or end with Moshe. The staff was created on the sixth day of creation, used by Adam, passed to future leaders. King David is said to have wielded it. It was stored in the First Temple, and then it disappeared.

We may not be able to hold the original matteh, but its deeper power is one we each carry.

Moshe is a reluctant redeemer. At the burning bush he resists the mission, insisting he is unworthy, unprepared, and incapable. Eventually, he accepts his role and prepares to return to Egypt. Before leaving Midian, he takes leave of his father-in-law, and the Torah tells us that he brings the matteh with him, exactly as God instructed. This staff, God had said, would be the catalyst for the miracles in Egypt.

And then something curious happens. As Moshe sets out, God reiterates the mission but conspicuously omits any mention of the staff: “When you return to Egypt, see that you perform before Pharaoh all the wonders that I have placed in your hands.” Placed in your hands.

Rabbi Don Isaac Abarbanel is struck by the omission. Why the sudden shift? Why remove the matteh from the conversation entirely? Abarbanel explains that Moshe was afraid - and understandably so. He was returning as a fugitive to confront Pharaoh, the most powerful ruler on earth. The matteh gave him comfort. It felt like a guarantee, a security blanket, a visible sign that God was with him, something concrete to hold on to. So, God gently but firmly reminds him: the staff has no intrinsic power. It is only a tool. Samti b’yadecha - the power is already in your hands. The miracles will not come from the wood you carry, but from the courage and responsibility you embrace as My agent. Don’t let the staff become a crutch. You already have what you need.

The matteh helped Moshe take the first step. It was never meant to define him.

There is a time for training wheels, and a time to ride without them. A moment when support is necessary, and a moment when growth demands confidence. Moshe had reached that moment. This idea echoes in Jewish law as well. The Shulchan Aruch rules that one may not lean on a lectern or support while reciting the Shemoneh Esrei, barring physical necessity. When we stand before God in our most intimate moment of prayer, we stand on our own two feet. It is a quiet but powerful message: when it matters most, we do not lean; we stand.

This message could not be more relevant today.

We are living in a moment that feels like both the best of times and the worst of times. There is so much to be grateful for - blessing, opportunity, prosperity, community, Jewish life flourishing in ways previous generations could only dream of, Israel’s successes since October 7 despite the pain. And yet, there is no shortage of worry or anxiety. Israel faces existential threats. Iran looms large in the headlines. The world feels unstable. Politics are angry and polarized. Partisanship seeps into every conversation, dividing families, communities, and friendships. In moments like these, it is tempting to retreat. To disengage. To rely on crutches and to assume others will handle it. Is it easier to wait for institutions to fix things or to scroll past instead of showing up. It can feel safer to lean than to stand.

That is precisely when the Torah insists: samti b’yadecha. The power is already in your hands.  Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm captured this moment beautifully: “We spend our time in search of magic wands, when there is magic in our hands.” It is a time for moral courage, responsibility, and confident engagement.

That truth resonates deeply in our Jewish lives.

We invest enormously in Jewish education - and rightly so. Schools, teachers, rabbis, and programs are invaluable. But Torah cannot be outsourced entirely. Torah is b’yadeinu. Jewish life must be lived and modeled in our homes: singing zemirot at the Shabbat table, pausing for Birkat HaMazon, having Jewish conversations that matter. These are not supplemental gestures; they are formative acts of leadership. When we own Jewish life with confidence, our children and all those around us learn that Judaism is not something you attend; it’s something you live.

The same is true of our support for Israel. We are rightly proud to be a pro-Israel community, but pride alone can become its own matteh, something we lean on rather than actively sustain. American support for Israel does not maintain itself. It requires engagement: financial support, political involvement, showing up, speaking out, and making our voices heard. Assuming that support will always be there without action is leaning on the staff. Keeping America pro-Israel remains b’yadeinu.

Moshe needed his matteh, and so do we. Support systems matter. Help is legitimate. Leaning, at times, is human. Growth, however, begins when God whispers to us what He whispered to Moshe: the power is already in your hands. In uncertain times, faith is not passivity. Confidence is not arrogance. Engagement is not extremism. It is responsibility. Moshe learned when to hold the staff - and when to let it go. May we have the wisdom to do the same, and may we discover that we can go farther and higher than we ever imagined.

I Will Be: A Phone Call from Gaza & Faith in the Future

When Moshe stands before the burning bush, he asks a question that sounds almost administrative, yet is anything but:

“Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is His name?’ What shall I tell them?” (Shemot 3:13)

At first glance, Moshe seems to be asking for information. In truth, he is asking for reassurance. What kind of God am I being sent to represent? What kind of faith am I asking the people to summon? God’s answer is one of the most enigmatic - and revolutionary - lines in all of Tanakh: Ehyeh asher Ehyeh.

For centuries, this phrase was flattened into abstraction. Translated into Greek as ego eimi ho on and into Latin as ego sum qui sum - “I am who I am,” it became the foundation for a philosophical God: timeless, changeless, Being-itself. Augustine saw here the God who cannot change. Aquinas read it as the ultimate metaphysical claim: God as eternal, immutable essence.

But, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught so powerfully, this is not the God of the Torah. This is Aristotle’s God, not Avraham’s. Not the God who hears cries, enters history, and redeems slaves. What those translations missed is the future tense.

Ehyeh does not mean “I am.” It means “I will be.” It means, “I will be what I will be. I will be where I will be. I will be how I will be.”

God is not defining His essence. He is declaring His mode of relationship with the world. This is not ontology. This is destiny. God is telling Moshe: You cannot fully know Me in advance. You will know Me through what unfolds. I am about to act in history, but I am not giving you guarantees, schedules, or certainty. I am giving you a mission.

In other words, God is saying: I am in charge, but that does not relieve you of responsibility. It creates it.

“I will be what I will be” means the story is not over. It also means that faith is not fixed, firm, or static. Faith is fluid. It rises and falls. It stretches and strains. Sometimes it is strong; sometimes it barely holds. That is not a flaw in faith. That is faith.

Biblical faith is not confidence in outcomes. It is trust in direction. Trust that God is still guiding history - even when we cannot yet see how, and especially when we cannot feel it.

God tells Moshe the destination in broad strokes. The people will be free, and they will eventually enter a land flowing with milk and honey. But God refuses to provide an exact roadmap. The plagues, the sea, the wilderness, the rebellions, the failures, the setbacks - none of them is disclosed in advance. Why? Because faith that knows the ending is not fully faith. God is teaching Moshe - and us - that faith is not the absence of doubt; it is the willingness to move forward despite it.

Faith is never passive. Human action is always future-oriented. We act to bring about what does not yet exist. Science can analyze the past and explain the present, but it cannot fully account for hope, moral courage, or sacrifice because those live in the future tense. And that is precisely where God lives in the Torah.

When God says Ehyeh asher Ehyeh, He is not only revealing something about Himself. He is revealing something about us. If God believes in the future, then so must we. If God acts in history, then we must act as well. If God does not give up on the world - even when it seems to be careening out of control, then neither may we. Faith, at its core, says: God is in charge, and therefore my choices matter.

This truth was lived - not theorized - by Julie Kuperstein, the mother of Bar Kuperstein, who was kidnapped from the Nova Music Festival on October 7, 2023. In January 2025, Julie received a phone call. A man speaking Hebrew with a Persian accent claimed to be a member of Hamas. “Bar is in our hands,” he said. He went on to threaten her. He told her she was not doing what they wanted her to do. If she wanted to see her son again, she should go to The Hague and testify against Israel. She should take to the streets and protest the Israeli government. The cruelty was deliberate. The goal was fear, helplessness, and paralysis.

Julie put the phone on speaker and replied calmly, “I’m not afraid of you. Bar isn’t in your hands. He’s in the hands of Hashem. Even in Gaza. And you yourself are also in the hands of Hashem.”

There was silence. Then the terrorist said, before hanging up: “Kol hakavod, giveret - Nicely put, ma’am.”

This was not denial. This was not passivity. This was Ehyeh asher Ehyeh lived in real time. Julie did not say, “God will take care of everything, so I will do nothing.” She said the opposite: “Because God is ultimately in charge, I have the strength to stand, to speak, and to continue.” Faith did not end the struggle. It made endurance possible.

These are heady days. Israel feels heavy. Jewish life feels heavy. Faith itself can feel heavy. Exactly. Redemption is not weightless. Responsibility never is.

Ehyeh asher Ehyeh does not promise ease. It promises partnership. God does what God does - and demands that we do what we can to the best of our ability, even when outcomes are uncertain. Faith does not mean the load disappears. It means we are given the strength to carry it. And when we stumble, we are lifted. When we despair, we are reminded that the story is still unfolding.

God does not say, “I was.” God does not even say, “I am.” God says, “I will be.” And because of that, so must we.

Shanah Tovah! A Jewish Take on January 1

The streets beyond the shtetl were loud with music blaring and drunken laughter echoing into the frozen night. Fireworks shattered the darkness. It was a night of noise and escape, of people losing themselves in revelry.

Inside the Beit Midrash, the chasidim of the Ohev Yisrael of Apta sat hunched over their books, trying to shut out the chaos beyond the frost-covered windows. But the noise pressed inward until suddenly the tzaddik himself entered. Without a word, the Ohev Yisrael walked to the window and opened it slightly, allowing the commotion of the street to rush in. The chasidim were startled. Why invite the impurity of the outside world into their sanctuary? The Rebbe stood still, eyes half-closed, smiling, as if listening for something beneath the chaos. After a long pause, he gently closed the window and turned to his students.

“Do you hear how they celebrate? This is how the nations begin their year – with noise, confusion, intoxication, escape. And look at us. When a Jew begins the year, he trembles. He prepares for a full month with selichot, with the wake-up call of the shofar. He pours himself into teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah. With awe, he crowns the King and steps into the Yamim Nora’im.”

Then he added, “When you hear their shouting, let it remind you of who you are.”

Our calendar, our rhythm, our spiritual reset is on Rosh Hashanah. Judaism does not need January 1 to define renewal. And yet, our tradition refuses to waste a moment. We can identify a Jewish soul within January 1.

There are several rabbinic personalities who acknowledged that the secular New Year has a spiritual side. The chasidic rabbi, the Ba’al Ha-Yeshuot, would bless people with a good year even on the civil New Year, noting with gentle humor that when God contrasts the way the nations mark their year with the way Jews approach Rosh Hashanah, it brings us added merit. Likewise, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, once wished a follower “Happy New Year” on January 1. He said this was the practice of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, who explained, “When it comes to blessing, every time is appropriate.”

Rabbi Nissan Mindel, the personal secretary of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, was present in the Rebbe’s room on the night of December 31. When midnight arrived, the Rebbe glanced at his watch and wished him, “Happy New Year.” Upon seeing Rabbi Mindel’s expression of surprise, the Rebbe responded simply by quoting Tehillim (87:6): “Hashem shall take notice based on the recording of the nations.” God, too, takes note of how the broader world marks time.

The Rebbe shared this idea on another occasion. On December 31, 1989, while distributing his famous dollars, he told one of the recipients in English, “This will give you a happy year.”

There is wisdom about the infinite power of blessings, but also boundaries for how a Jew engages with the outside world.

Rabbi Norman Lamm was once asked about attending a New Year’s Eve dance. His response was classic and precise:

1. It is not technically prohibited.
2. Not everything permissible is advisable.
3. A better use of funds might be to donate the cost of the ticket towards organizing an evening of Torah study instead.

That is the Jewish approach in a nutshell: discernment without disengagement. Take note of the outside world and channel it towards a higher purpose. The world is excited as we turn the calendar; we should be excited as well.

January 1 is not ours, but it is there. And Judaism has always known how to take what exists in the world and redirect it toward purpose.

My understanding of the Jewish take on January 1 is not that it becomes sacred, but that it becomes usable. It has come to represent movement - forward motion, momentum, and the human desire to turn a page. And there is nothing more Jewish than refusing to let that impulse go to waste.

At a time when our community and our people face so many challenges, we need every legitimate opportunity to recommit to our values, our responsibilities, and our mission. While the world resets resolutions that often fade by February, we can double down on what already defines us, infusing it with new vitality, energy, passion, and enthusiasm.

So, yes, remember to write “2026” on your checks (for those who still write checks). But more importantly, let us take advantage of this moment when the world pauses and starts again. Not because January 1 is Jewish - but because Jews know how to move forward.

And for that opportunity, we can sincerely wish one another: Shanah Tovah!

Trusting Pilots & Having Skin in the Game

We do something curious when boarding an airplane.

Most of us have no idea who the pilot is. We don’t ask how many hours they’ve flown, where they trained, or whether they passed their last simulator test. We glance at the uniform, hear a calm voice over the intercom, buckle up - and entrust our lives to a total stranger.

Yet when it comes to choosing a doctor, we behave very differently. We research credentials, read reviews, ask around, want second and third opinions. We want to know everything.

Why the difference?

It isn’t because flying is less dangerous than medicine. It’s because the pilot is on the plane with us. The pilot has skin in the game.

If something goes wrong, the pilot doesn’t walk away. They go down with us. That shared fate generates a deep, instinctive trust. The doctor, no matter how skilled or compassionate, does not share that same immediate risk. If a procedure fails, the patient bears the consequences - not the physician. And so, we are more wary.

The Torah understood this long before behavioral economics gave it a name.

When Yosef demands that Binyamin be brought down to Egypt, Yaakov is paralyzed with fear. He has already lost Yosef. Losing Binyamin would be unbearable. Reuven steps forward with an offer that sounds dramatic and sincere: “You may kill my two sons if I do not bring him back to you.” (Bereishit 42:37)

At first glance, Reuven seems heroic. He is willing to pay the ultimate price. Yet, Yaakov rejects him outright. Why?  Because Reuven’s offer is not only ineffective but foolish. What comfort would it bring Yaakov to lose Binyamin and two grandsons? How does multiplying tragedy inspire trust?

Reuven’s pledge, though emotional, costs Yaakov everything and costs Reuven very little in the moment. It is a symbolic sacrifice, not a personal one.

Then Yehuda steps forward: “I will personally guarantee him. From my hand you may demand him. If I do not bring him back…I will bear the blame forever.” (Bereishit 43:9)

No theatrics. No collateral damage. Just responsibility. Yehuda does not offer someone else’s life. He offers himself - his future, his standing, his identity. He puts his own life, reputation, and destiny on the line.

And Yaakov immediately accepts. Because Yehuda has skin in the game.

The Netziv explains that Yehuda’s defining strength is achrayut, personal responsibility. Leadership is not about grand gestures or eloquent promises. It is about standing in the blast radius when things go wrong. Reuven’s offer says: “If I fail, others will suffer.” Yehuda’s guarantee says: “If I fail, I will suffer.”

That difference changes everything.

It is no accident that Yehuda becomes the progenitor of Jewish leadership and kingship. A king does not rule from safety. A leader does not outsource risk. True leadership requires shared fate.

It is interesting to note that Yehuda is also the first person to admit his mistake. When confronted by Tamar after accusing her of committing adultery and deserving of death, she did not blame others. She simply proclaimed that the father of her child was the owner of the “signet, and the cord, and the staff.” Yehuda immediately realized the situation – and he acknowledged the truth. “Tzadka mimeni – She is more righteous than me.” (Bereishit 38:26)

Yosef is known as the tzaddik, righteous one, for all he accomplishes, but the descendants of Yehuda earn the kingship for owning up and taking responsibility.

This principle matters far beyond the pages of Bereishit. If we want to influence a community, an institution, or even a family, we cannot stand on the sidelines issuing critiques and suggestions. People instinctively ask - often without realizing it: What does this cost you? What are you risking? What do you lose if this fails?

Ideas without investment rarely move people. Passion without personal stake rings hollow. If we want to change a culture, improve a school, strengthen a shul, or heal a relationship, we must show that we are not merely offering opinions - we are sharing consequences. That is when trust is born. That is when leadership emerges. That is when people listen.

Yaakov trusted Yehuda for the same reason we trust a pilot: because when someone is willing to go down with the plane, we believe they will do everything in their power to keep it in the air.

And that, the Torah teaches us, is what it means to matter.

The Chanukah Light Can Dispel Any Darkness

Banu chosech l’gareish, beyadeinu ohr va'esh
Kol echad hu ohr katan, v'chulanu ohr eitan
Surah choshech hal’ah sh'chor. Surah mipnei haor!

We come to chase away the darkness.In our hands are light and fire.
Each individual light is small, but together – our light is invincible.
Fight the darkness, chase away the blackness! Victory will be achieved because of the light!

This classic Israeli Chanukah song written in 1960 by Sara Levi-Tanai captures the essence of Chanukah: Jewish light dispels any darkness.

Over the past week, we were reminded of just how thick darkness can feel. On Sunday, the joy of Chanukah was shattered by the murderous attack in Australia. This horrific event amplified the darkness Jews have been feeling and heightened attention to vandalism of menorahs around the world, Jews attacked on subways and on the streets, and murders in Brookline, MA and Brown University.

At the same time, the light of Chanukah cannot be stopped.

Last Thursday, the IDF released video of hostages celebrating Chanukah in Hamas tunnels on the first night of Chanukah, December 8, 2023. Ori Danino is seen lighting a makeshift menorah with fellow captives Eden Yerushalmi, Almog Sarusi, Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Carmel Gat, and Alex Lobanov looking on. The group, who were later called “The Beautiful Six,” were executed in August 2024 as Israeli troops approached, and their bodies were discovered just two days later.

The group is heard reciting the Shehechiyanu, thanking God for “granting us life.” Later in the clip, one of the hostages is heard joking, “Where are the sufganiyot?” Hersh responded, “We’re waiting for Roladin in Israel,” referring to the bakery known for making all sorts of fancy donuts during the Chanukah season.

The hostages’ voices can be heard as they sing Chanukah songs and discuss religious differences in their upbringings and lives. While singing “Maoz Tzur,” Ori and Hersh sing the additional, lesser known five stanzas. Someone in the background asks, “Why so many verses?” “It’s describing all of the enemies who tried killing us over history,” replies Hersh. “Well, now we have to add another verse,” retorts Eden.

In the tunnels of Gaza…

Nothing stops the light. The hostages even discussed this.

In the footage, Hersh says lighting in the tunnels reminds him of the famous photo of the lit Chanukah candles in Nazi Germany. That picture was taken by the Posner family in Kiel, Germany in 1931. It shows their menorah on their windowsill, with a Nazi flag in the background on the building across the street. On the back of that old photo, Rachel Posner wrote a short poem:

‘Death to Judah,’ so the flag says. ‘Judah will live forever,’ so the light answers.

The hostages reciting Shehechiyanu recalls a story in Dr. Yaffa Eliach’s Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust. On the first night of Chanukah in Bergen Belsen, inmates crowded to watch the Bluzhever Rebbe kindle the makeshift lights. After reciting the first two berachot, he paused for a long moment, looked around, and only then recited Shehechiyanu.

A secular Bundist Jew who was present chided the rabbi, “How can you say Shehechiyanu here? How can you thank God for allowing us to live HERE?!?” The Rebbe responded:

“You are a hundred percent right. When I reached the third blessing, I also hesitated and asked myself, what should I do with this blessing? I turned my head to ask the Rabbi of Zaner and other distinguished rabbis who were standing near me, if indeed I should recite Shehechiyanu. But as I turned my head, I noticed that behind me stood a large crowd of living Jews, their faces expressing faith and devotion…I said to myself, if God has such a nation that at times like these stand and listen to the Chanukah blessings, if, indeed, I was blessed to see such a people with so much faith and fervor, then I am under a special obligation to recite the third blessing of Shehechiyanu.”

God has such a nation. Jews lighting in Bergen Belsen. Jews lighting in Hamas tunnels. Jews lighting to counter the darkness of terror, murder, and hate.

"Gvald, Yidn! Zayt zikh nit m’yayish! Jews don't give in to despair!" These words were the rallying cry of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in 1943. We never despair because we know the light will win.

Despite the darkness of Hamas in Gaza or Nazis in Germany or Islamist terrorists in Australia, Jewish light shines on. Jews celebrate Chanukah. Jews persevere. Jews thrive. Jews fight back. Our obstacles are setbacks, not defeats. Even when there is death, there will be life. Even when there is darkness, there will be light.

Banu chosech l’gareish. We are here to chase away the darkness armed with the light that, with God’s help, ensures our victory.

Pass or Take the Shot; See or Be Seen?

On January 6, 2007, a young basketball star named LeBron James scored in double digits.

Nothing unusual about that - except that he would go on to do it again. And again. And again. For the next 1,297 consecutive games, over the span of 18 years, LeBron James scored at least ten points in every single game he played. It became the longest double-digit scoring streak in NBA history - so massive that you would need to combine the next 11 active players just to catch him.

And then, last Thursday night, it ended. LeBron scored only eight points.

The Lakers were in a tight game against the Toronto Raptors. In the final possession, LeBron had the ball. He could have taken the shot, possibly extended the streak and maybe even winning the game himself. Instead, he found Rui Hachimura in the corner, who hit a three-pointer. Lakers win 123-120!

After the game, LeBron was asked for his thoughts about the streak ending. He answered with one word: “None.” Why? “We won.” He added that this was a career highlight and said, “I’m going to show my son this box score.”

"He's such an unselfish player," Lakers center Jake LaRavia said. "He had the opportunity, but because of the player he is and just who he is as a person, he made the unselfish play, passed it to Rui and we won the game."

LeBron had a streak that defined individual greatness. But in the defining moment, when the choice was “me” or to see the other, he chose to see.

We need to be looking for the “open man.” That’s how we win. We need to see.

Rabbi Kenneth Brander, the head of Ohr Torah Stone in Israel, discusses the Talmud (Shabbat 22a) connecting the laws of Chanukah lights with the story of Yosef in the pit.

Chanukah lights must be placed low enough to be seen because the mitzvah is about visibility. Immediately afterward, the Talmud recalls how Yosef’s brothers failed to see him. They ignored his cries, overlooked his danger, and allowed their own jealousy to blind them to his humanity. The juxtaposition teaches that the light of Chanukah can only illuminate the world if we first learn to truly “see” one another. Just as the menorah must be within our line of sight, the people around us - family, friends, and those who are struggling - must remain within our moral line of sight.

Spiritual light and ethical responsibility are intertwined. We cannot bring light to the public square if we are blind to the pain of those closest to us. Chanukah, therefore, calls us to correct the failure of Yosef’s brothers by cultivating empathy, responsibility, and genuine attentiveness to every human being who needs to be seen.

Every marriage deals with this tension. Every family confronts it, as does every community. A moment where we must decide: Do we take the shot for ourselves, or do we look for the open player? Are we focused on our own score, our own streak, our own accomplishments? Or are we ready to see others, help others, elevate others and serve the community and strengthen the whole? Are we only concerned with the Chanukah lights being seen and our own celebrations or are our eyes wide open to see the needs of those around us?

I love the pirsumei nisa aspect of Chanukah, our obligation to publicize the miracle. We share Chanukah candles and gifts with our Jewish neighbors (thanks Barry & Debra Frohlinger!), we host an outdoor menorah lighting, and we blast the holiday’s message of Jewish resilience to inspire the community. Chanukah deserves – and needs – to be seen so that it reminds us to see. We must keep our eyes wide open for what we can do to add light and hope to a world steeped in darkness.

When we choose to seek out – to see – the other, something profound happens: We may lose a personal streak, but we win the game that really matters. Sharing the light of Chanukah is not only about others seeing it but about us seeing others. Greatness is not only measured by how often we score for ourselves, but by how often we see, uplift, and create victories for all. 

Wrestling with Blessing

I admit it. I watched professional wrestling as a kid.

So when Parshat Vayishlach comes around, I can’t help thinking of the first real “main event” in history — and this one wasn’t choreographed.

The Torah gives us the play-by-play:

“And Yaakov was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn.
When he saw that he could not prevail, he struck the hollow of Yaakov’s thigh…
The man said, ‘Let me go, for the day breaks.’
Yaakov said, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’
The opponent said, ‘What is your name?’
He said, ‘Yaakov.’
The man said, ‘Your name shall no longer be Yaakov but Yisrael, for you have struggled with God and with man - and prevailed.’” (Bereishit 32:25–29)

Most commentators debate the identity of the mysterious opponent. I want to look at something else: the nature of the struggle and the surprising truth that the struggle itself becomes the blessing.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asks a simple question: Why did Yaakov fight at all? Yaakov was no fighter. He was yosheiv ohalim, the quiet student, the man of the tent. Eisav was the hunter, the warrior. What was Yaakov doing in a wrestling match he seemed destined to lose?

The Rav explains that Yaakov was not displaying koach - physical strength. He was displaying gevurah - spiritual heroism. Gevurah begins where logic ends. It’s what happens when a person believes in something so deeply that retreat is no longer an option. A hero in the Torah is not defined by the battles he wins but by the values he refuses to surrender. Heroism is passion, conviction, purpose - even when the odds are against you. That is why Yaakov fights.

Yaakov’s fight foreshadows three dimensions of the Jewish struggle. The Torah uses the word va’yeiaveik. It comes from three related ideas and together they outline the story of Jewish history.

1. Avak - dust. Like dust in the wind, we have been scattered again and again.
2. Avak - to wrestle. We have endured endless physical battles - threats, attacks, persecutions.
3. Va’yechabeik - to embrace. In modern times, our struggle is not only with enemies but with the seductive embrace of assimilation, the pull of a world that wants us to blend in until there is nothing distinct left to protect.

These are the fights of Yaakov. These are the fights of the Jewish people.

Yaakov wrestles the entire night. He emerges limping, injured, forever marked. So, did he win?

The Torah’s answer is yes because victory is not defined by walking away unscathed. Victory is defined by who you become through the struggle. Yaakov receives his new name, Yisrael - the one who struggles and prevails. His wound becomes part of our identity. We remember it every time we avoid the sciatic nerve. It may limit our access to a cut of kosher filet mignon, but the real reminder is not culinary; it’s spiritual.

Our wounds don’t diminish us. Our struggle doesn’t weaken us. Our struggle is part of our blessing.

Last night, I met Effi Eitam, an IDF brigadier general, former leader of the National Religious Party, and like so many others, a man with an October 7th story. When the attacks began, he put on his uniform, got in his car, and drove toward the danger. He found himself face-to-face with a Hamas terrorist and fought. He spoke with pain about two sons wounded in Gaza. He spoke with pride about his grandson in officer training. He spoke with humor about the young soldier — barely older than his grandson — who informed the 72-year-old general that he, the rookie, was now in command. And he spoke with absolute confidence that Am Yisrael will prevail.

Looking at that man, a Yom Kippur War hero who is still fighting, it is impossible not to think of Yaakov: fighting, unbroken, and blessed.

In 1964, Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote his landmark essay Confrontation. He argued that Jewish sacredness requires boundaries, that identity demands clarity, and that not every embrace is holy. Our uniqueness means we cannot dissolve ourselves into the identities or the theologies of others. Struggle does not endanger who we are. Struggle defines who we are.

Today, we face our own confrontation - enemies on the outside, confusion on the inside, a world that too often misunderstands or misrepresents us. Some shrink back. Some despair. And yet so many have stepped into the ring with courage, with conviction, with faith. We may never have the numbers of our enemies, but we have something far stronger: the truth of our story, the strength of our people, and the God Who promised us that struggle leads to blessing.

If we remain engaged in the struggle, we will prevail. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “If we know who we are, we need fear neither the hostility of the nations nor their friendship. For we are strong enough to fight for our safety and for our values.” That is the legacy of Yaakov. That is the name Yisrael. That is the message of our generation. We struggle, and we prevail. We are wounded, and we walk forward anyway. We enter the ring again and again because that is who we are.