Rabbi Mendy's Blog

 

We live in an age of endless choices. Every decision seems to come with hundreds of options: where to live, what school to choose, what career to pursue, what to buy, where to vacation, how to spend our time, and even what values to embrace. We are surrounded by more opportunity than any generation before us, yet many people have never felt more overwhelmed. The sheer number of possibilities can leave us paralyzed, constantly wondering if we are making the right decision for ourselves and our families. With so many voices competing for our attention, how do we know which direction to take?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion Eikev, which offers an answer that is as profound as it is simple. Moshe asks the Jewish people, "And now, Israel, what does the Lord your G-d ask of you? Only to revere the Lord your G-d, to walk in all His ways, to love Him, and to serve the Lord your G-d with all your heart and with all your soul." At first glance, it sounds almost too simple. Is that really all G-d asks? Yet perhaps Moshe is teaching us that before we ask what college to attend, what investment to make, or what opportunity to pursue, we should first ask a far more important question: What does G-d want from me right now?

When that question becomes the lens through which we see our lives, everything else begins to fall into place. Instead of being driven by fear of missing out, social pressure, or the endless pursuit of more, we begin making decisions based on purpose. The goal is no longer simply to choose between good and better, but to discover which path allows us to best fulfill the mission G-d has entrusted to us. That shift transforms life from a series of disconnected decisions into a meaningful journey guided by a clear destination.

Revering and loving G-d are not abstract ideas reserved for the synagogue. They become practical tools for everyday living. Every conversation, business decision, family choice, and personal ambition becomes an opportunity to ask, "Will this bring me closer to the person G-d wants me to become?" The remarkable truth is that the more we make G-d the center of our lives, the less confusing life becomes. We may not always know the future, but we can know the next right step.

Perhaps that is the challenge of Eikev. Rather than allowing the noise of the world to dictate our priorities, let us begin each day with one simple question: What does G-d ask of me today? If we can build our lives around that question, our choices will become clearer, our families stronger, and our lives more purposeful. In a world overflowing with options, the greatest freedom comes not from having endless choices, but from having one unwavering focus: to live each day in a way that brings us closer to G-d and fulfills the unique mission He has given each of us to bring G-d closer to our world. 

Many of us know what it feels like to be the minority. It is not just a statistic; it is an experience. We live in a world where Jewish identity can sometimes feel lonely, where we carry the weight of representing our people in schools, workplaces, and communities. Today, with rising antisemitism and relentless scrutiny of Israel and the Jewish people, it is natural to wonder: Why did G-d choose it this way? If He entrusted us with such an important mission to bring His light into the world, why not make us a little larger? Why not give us the comfort and security that comes with overwhelming numbers?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Va'Eschanan, with perfect clarity. "It is not because you are more numerous than all the peoples that Hashem desired you and chose you, for you are the fewest of all the peoples." Our smallness is not a flaw in G-d's plan; it is part of the plan itself. Hashem deliberately chose a nation that could never confuse its survival with its own strength. Every generation of Jewish history reminds us that demographics, military power, political influence, or economic might cannot explain our existence. We are here because Hashem wants us here.

History is filled with civilizations that believed their greatness rested in their armies, wealth, technology, or sheer size. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Greece, Rome; the list goes on. Each empire was convinced that its power was permanent, yet each eventually crumbled into the pages of history. The Jewish people, by contrast, have outlived them all. Not because we were stronger, but because we were never meant to rely on our own strength alone. Our very existence is a living testimony that "not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit," says Hashem. Our survival has always pointed beyond ourselves to the One who protects us.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts we offer the world. By remaining a small nation, we become a constant reminder that true security does not come from numbers or power. We model a different way of living—one built on faith, trust, and an awareness that every blessing ultimately comes from G-d. That does not mean we neglect our responsibilities or fail to defend ourselves. Judaism has never taught passivity. We work, we build, we protect, and we prepare. But beneath every effort lies the unwavering recognition that success is granted by Hashem alone. Our smallness keeps us humble enough never to forget that truth.

This week, let us embrace what makes us different instead of fearing it. Rather than asking why we are so few, let us ask whether we are fulfilling the purpose for which we were chosen. Every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every moment of courage proclaims that our confidence does not rest in numbers but in Hashem's promise. If we carry ourselves with that faith, then we do more than strengthen ourselves; we become the example the world so desperately needs: a people who have learned that the greatest source of security is not the size of our nation, but the greatness of our faith in G-d, and only through that faith will our world realize healing and harmony for all.

There are moments when being Jewish can feel overwhelming. Judaism is not a hobby, a weekend activity, or simply a set of traditions we pull out for the holidays. It is meant to shape every aspect of our lives—how we eat, how we speak, how we conduct business, how we raise our children, how we spend our time, and even how we think. Today, when Jews face rising animosity, relentless criticism, and the emotional weight of watching Israel and the Jewish people endure challenge after challenge, many are quietly asking themselves: Is it worth it? Why carry the responsibility of living differently when it often seems to invite misunderstanding and opposition?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Devarim, which begins the fifth Book of the Torah. Moses stands before the Jewish people in the final weeks of his life. He has led them for forty years, performed miracles, fought battles, and taught them the Torah. Yet his greatest gift may not have been any of those accomplishments. His greatest gift may have been his final address. Devarim is more than a review of history or a repetition of the commandments. It is Moses explaining the "why." He reminds the people not only what G-d asks of them, but why their mission matters. Before they enter the Land of Israel without him, he wants them to understand that Judaism is not merely a collection of obligations; it is a calling that gives purpose to every moment of life.

That question of "why" is one we all need to answer for ourselves. Rules alone rarely inspire commitment. A person can follow habits for only so long before asking whether they still matter. Moses understood that if the Jewish people were going to survive centuries of exile, persecution, and uncertainty, they would need more than laws. They would need conviction. They would need to know that every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every Shabbat candle, every prayer, and every moment of Jewish living is part of a Divine mission to bring holiness into an often-chaotic world. When we know the reason behind what we do, the burden becomes a privilege.

That is why Devarim is always read before Tisha B'Av, when we reflect on the destruction of the Temple and so many painful chapters of Jewish history. It reminds us that while our circumstances may change, our purpose never does. As Moses pleads with the Jewish people, "Know this day and take it to your heart that the L-rd is G-d... there is none else." Faith was never meant to remain in the mind alone. It must travel to the heart, where it shapes our choices, our courage, and our identity. We are not Jewish because life is easy. We are Jewish because G-d entrusted us with an eternal mission to model a meaningful life for the world. Every generation has faced its own headwinds, yet every generation has also produced men and women who chose to embrace their identity with pride rather than retreat from it, and now it's our turn.

This week, let us ask ourselves not only what we do as Jews, but why we do it. Study a little more. Perform one more mitzvah. Have one meaningful conversation with your children or grandchildren about what it means to be part of this remarkable people. When we reconnect with the "why," the "what" becomes infinitely more powerful. 

This week, Moses' voice still echoes through the words of Devarim, reminding us that our Jewish identity is not a burden to carry but a legacy to live, and one that is more necessary today than ever before to bring the world together in harmony with the coming of Moshiach speedily, amen!

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Pinchas. As Moshe Rabbeinu prepares to leave this world, he asks Hashem to appoint a leader who will guide the Jewish people. One might have expected that leadership would naturally pass to one of Moshe's sons. Instead, Hashem appoints Yehoshua, Moshe's devoted student. Our sages explain that Joshua earned this role because he faithfully served Moshe, absorbed his values, and dedicated himself to the mission. Leadership is not inherited solely through a family name. It is passed on through the values we teach, the example we live, and the time we invest in shaping another soul.

Perhaps the greatest responsibility of a parent is not simply to provide for a child but to prepare a child. A full pantry, a beautiful home, and a successful career are blessings, but they are not a legacy. A legacy is created when children learn kindness from watching it at the dinner table, integrity from seeing it in their parents' choices, faith from witnessing it in daily living, and responsibility from sacrificing to a cause greater than themselves. Children rarely become what we tell them to be. More often, they become what they consistently see us being.

This lesson feels especially relevant today. We live in a culture that encourages us to compare ourselves with everyone else and to believe our worth is measured by what we can provide materially. Yet Judaism reminds us that the greatest inheritance we can leave our children is not wealth but wisdom, not comfort but character, not privilege but purpose. When we intentionally teach our children to care for others, to serve Hashem, and to live meaningful lives, we ensure that our family's values will outlive us.

This week, our family mourns the passing of my dear father-in-law, Reb Sholom Ber Eber, of blessed memory. He never sought recognition, yet his life quietly touched countless people through favors big and small, always looking for someone he could help, as evidenced by the hundreds who came to pay their respects this week during Shiva. His greatest accomplishment was not found in anything he owned, but in the family he raised. He instilled in his children, including our dear Dina, a life of service to others, marked by humility, kindness, and unwavering integrity. He never wavered from the truth and his Jewish pride. That is a legacy that cannot be bought and never fades. May his memory be a blessing for all of us who knew him and loved him. Now, we must ask ourselves not only what we are giving our children, but who we are helping them become. Because the greatest gift we can leave the next generation is a life worth continuing.

There is something unsettling about the times we are living in. Around the world, and even here in America, Jew-hatred is becoming louder and more brazen. We find ourselves asking a question Jews have asked for thousands of years: How are we still here? How has a tiny nation survived exile, persecution, expulsions, inquisitions, pogroms, the Holocaust, and now yet another wave of hatred? How do certain performers continue to operate while espousing such reprehensible beliefs?

The answer, as always, lies in this week's double Torah portion, Chukas-Balak. King Balak hired the greatest prophet of the nations, Balaam, to curse the Jewish people. Yet every attempt failed. Frustrated, Balaam exclaimed, "How shall I curse whom G-d has not cursed? How can I invoke wrath when G-d is not angry?" He recognized that the Jewish people possessed something no curse could penetrate: their secret strength. "From their beginning, I see them as mountain peaks, and I behold them as hills; it is a nation that will dwell alone and not reckon itself among the nations." Our Sages explain that the "mountain peaks" refer to our Patriarchs, and the "hills" to our Matriarchs.

Balaam understood something that even many Jews forget. Our strength has never come from our military, our wealth, our influence, or our numbers. It comes from our foundation. A building can only stand as long as its foundation remains strong. Our foundation is Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. It is the values they passed on: faith in Hashem, kindness, courage, family, Torah, and an unwavering sense of purpose. Every generation that reconnects to that foundation becomes impossible to uproot.

History has proven Balaam's words to be true. The greatest empires have disappeared. Nations that once sought our destruction are now chapters in history books. Yet the Jewish people continue to thrive. Those who hate us often assume our survival is a mystery. Balaam saw that it wasn't a mystery at all. It was a promise. As long as we remain connected to the mountains and hills from which we came, no curse, no hatred, and no enemy can define our future.

This week, instead of allowing the headlines to fill us with fear, let them remind us of where our strength truly comes from. Open a Jewish book. Put on tefillin. Light a Shabbat candle. Tell your children the stories of our Patriarchs and Matriarchs, your Bubbies and Zaidys, Sabas and Savtas. Remember that every mitzvah reconnects us to the foundation that has carried our people for thousands of years. Balaam's blessing still echoes today, reminding us that our survival has never been an accident. We are here because we remain rooted in Jewish life, and every Jew-hater knows that. Now it's time for each of us to accept and live this simple truth.