Is it bread of affliction or bread commemorating the haste in which Bnei Yisrael left Egypt? Veritably, the Jewish People, as slaves to Pharaoh, ate only matzah, which is considered poor man’s bread, because it takes longer to digest and allows the person to feel “satiated” longer. This was their bread of affliction. When they left Egypt, they left in a hurry; thus, their dough could not rise long enough to become bread. Sforno wonders why the Torah gives two reasons for lechem oni. He explains that Hashem took all the afflictions of Bnei Yisrael into consideration, and, as a result, rewarded them with redemption. To paraphrase Sforno, “In exchange for the chipazon ha’oni, haste of affliction, they merited the chipazon ha’geulah, ‘Haste of redemption.’”
The manner in which we were redeemed was closely aligned with the affliction that we experienced. Nothing is left unrequited. Hashem calculates everything we endure in life and compensates us for it. As slaves, the Jews had no time to bake bread, because their taskmasters gave them little respite from their labors. Unquestionably, the people wondered why they had to endure another indignity in addition to their backbreaking labor. If they could return home at the end of the day and at least have a decent meal, their toil might have been somewhat less afflicting. Little did they realize that, as restitution for that insensitive haste to which they were subjected, Hashem redeemed them swiftly from Egypt. The matzah of freedom is the result of the matzah of affliction.
So often, we read a situation through human perspective, thinking that something has gone awry: we do not deserve this; someone is attempting to use us – only to discover that what we had thought was a negative situation was actually positive or the precursor for a positive result. As we endure what superficially appears to be one of life’s many vicissitudes, we do not know what it is that we have done to deserve this. “Why” is a human question, because humans have limitations. The word “why” does not exist in the Heavenly sphere. Hashem has a reason for everything that occurs. We must be patient.
A teacher attended a seminar in which the topic was: “Listen to your students.” The underlying concept was to train the teacher to stop and think before acting. Even what appears to be an act of defiance, chutzpah, disrespect, quite possibly has a justifiable circumstance behind it. The student may be intimating a message to us. If we would only listen. This idea applies across the board in all relationships – be they with friends, colleagues, or family. Understandably, it applies especially with regard to our relationship with Hashem. Let me expand upon this idea.
A fourth grade morah was teaching her class, when in walked one of the students – very late. The young girl appeared somewhat nervous when she handed the morah a note explaining her tardiness. The teacher continued reading aloud, while she opened the note. After reading it, the teacher’s mood changed. She became angry at the audacity of this student. No adult writes the illegible scrawl that this girl presented. This note was clearly a forgery. This was why the girl was nervous. She had forged the note, “Please excuse Esti for being late. It will not happen again.” The note had been written in an almost childish scrawl. Her father had signed it.
No teacher wants to be treated as a fool – especially by a fourth grader. This note had been written either by a brother, a friend, or even Esti. The teacher remembered the lesson she had learned at the seminar, and, against her better judgment, she allowed calmness to prevail over her anger. Obviously, this girl was nervous, because she feared being caught pulling off such a stunt. The teacher breathed deeply, maintained her composure, and told Esti, “Okay, take your seat.”
Esti began to walk to her seat – stopped, looked back, and returned to the teacher’s desk. “Morah,” she said, “I am sorry for the way the note looks. You see, my mother was not home – and my father is blind.” It goes without saying that the morah could not find a hole deep enough in which to hide. Imagine, had she expressed her true feelings towards Esti. It could have traumatized the girl for life.
This idea applies equally to life and the challenges which we confront. All too often, we are cruising along, when suddenly, out of (what appears to be) nowhere, we come up against a brick wall in the guise of a challenge. Why is this happening to me? How should I react/relate to this? As faithful Jews, we believe that nothing occurs in a vacuum. Hashem choreographs our lives. During the journey of life, we do not understand the “speedbumps” which we confront. When we reach our destination, when we arrive at the End of Days, we will see how everything in life – before, during and after – all meshes together. Two seemingly unrelated narratives will become one, as we realize that they complement one another.
David Hamelech and Yonasan, son of Shaul Hamelech, represented the paradigmatic friendship between two people. Unfortunately, Shaul had issues with David (through no fault of David). It was thus necessary, to distance themselves from one another. David asked Yonasan to give him a sign when his father was out to kill him. Yonasan replied that he would go to the field where David was hiding and practice archery. If he told his attendant, “Behold, the arrows are behind you,” it was a sign that David should lech, go – ki shilachacha Hashem, for this is a sign that “Hashem has sent him away” (Shmuel I:20:22). Horav Eliyahu Meir Bloch, zl, questioned the use of the word lech, go. When one is escaping, when he is (so to speak) running for his life, he should be told to b’rach, run – not lech, go.
The Rosh Yeshivah explained the text in order to impart a valuable life lesson to us. Brach, run, implies that one is running away from something. Lech, go, means that one is going towards a destination. David was being told, “You are on a shlichus, mission, from Hashem. The Almighty is taking you by the hand and accompanying you on this mission.” This was the Rosh Yeshivah’s message when he, together with his brother-in-law and co-Rosh Yeshivah of Telshe, Horav Chaim Mordechai Katz, zl, arrived in Cleveland. Lech, ki shilachaha Hashem. We are here on a mission, sent by Hashem, to build Torah in America – and this they did.
Over the years, I have written thousands of stories – Some inspire me while I write; others stay with me, their message resonating, inspiring and guiding. I wrote the following vignette years ago, but it continues to visit me often, its message powerful and timeless. Indeed, as I get older, and I see and hear what is occurring in the wider community, its message becomes even stronger.
A distinguished Kollel fellow was known throughout his community for his tireless devotion to serving Hashem. He meticulously devoted every minute of his life to Torah study, tefillah and performing acts of kindness. His fervent devotion knew no bounds, as he sought to fulfill his purpose in life with unwavering commitment.
It all came to a halt, however, when he was struck down by the relentless grip of the dread disease. The ravages of illness left him bedridden, his body wracked with pain, and his spirit tested to its limits. In his darkest moments, he questioned the purpose behind his suffering. He asked his Rebbe why such vicissitudes had befallen him, when he could achieve so much more if he would be healthy and filled with vitality.
His Rebbe responded with powerful wisdom, which became the guiding light in this yunger man’s journey of faith. “Hashem does not want you to serve Him only when you are healthy,” he gently said, “He wants you to serve Him with your last ounce of strength. This is your personal mission in life.”
These words, though simple in delivery, carried a profound truth that resonated deeply within this young man’s neshamah, soul. Despite the excruciating pain that he endured, he found solace in the knowledge that his suffering had purpose. It was, instead, a testament to his unwavering commitment to serving Hashem, even in the face of adversity. With renewed determination, he embraced his illness as a means to deepen his connection to Hashem. Every moment became an opportunity to serve Hashem with greater devotion, to offer prayers of gratitude amidst the throes of pain, and find joy and inner peace in fulfilling his Divine mission.
He eventually succumbed to the devastating illness, but not before imparting a legacy of undeviating faith and devotion with which he served Hashem until his last breath. His story and its powerful lesson stand as a beacon of hope for all who face adversity, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, we find purpose and meaning in serving a higher calling. After all, we are on a Divine mission.
