By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz
This week, we begin Sefer Shemos, the Sefer Hageulah. It is the sefer that tells the story of how a broken, enslaved people rose from the depths of despair to stand at Har Sinai to receive the Torah. It carries us from the bitterness of bondage to the ecstasy of redemption, from drowning terror at the YamSuf to the highest spiritual moment in human history.
But Sefer Shemos is not merely a historical account. It teaches us what destroys a nation — and what saves it.
The Alter of Kelm would explain that just as Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov are called the avos because they laid the foundations of Yiddishkeit, so do the parshiyos of Sefer Shemos function as avos, forming the bedrock of our emunah and guiding us how to live as Jews.
How we treat other people defines us. It shapes our souls and announces, louder than any slogan, who we are. When we are attentive to others, when we notice them, value them, and appreciate them, we grow. We become capable of achdus. And through that unity, we become capable of far more than we ever could accomplish alone.
Hashem designed human beings to need one another. A person cannot thrive in isolation. From the moment we enter the world, we survive only through connection. As infants, we are utterly dependent. Even as adults, nearly everything we require to sustain our lives — food, shelter, education, health, security — comes from the labor and kindness of others. Every act of care, every hand extended, is part of the invisible network that sustains us.
Arrogance blinds people to this reality. Those who refuse to acknowledge how much they owe others imagine themselves self-made. It should be obvious that without the contributions of many other people, they would be hungry, lonely, ignorant, and lost. Everything we know, everything we have, exists because someone else cared enough to give. Appreciating even the smallest kindness is part of the lifeblood of community.
A meaningful life cannot be lived alone. Peirud — division — is not merely a social flaw. It is spiritual corrosion. It weakens communities and hollows out the people who cause it.
The Torah is filled with mitzvos that cultivate humility and gratitude, mitzvos that remind us that the world is sustained by kindness and that Hashem showers us with blessing every day. Whatever we pursue in life, we must remember the ultimate goal. Not winning arguments. Not momentary triumphs. But building something enduring. Unity makes our efforts last.
The Torah tells us in Devorim (7:7) that Hashem did not choose us because we were many. We are, in fact, the smallest of the nations. And yet, when we are united, we become greater than the sum of our parts. Our deeds combine. Our merits accumulate. Other nations may be larger, but when we have achdus, no one can overtake us.
We must learn how to move forward together, not as individuals who happen to share a label, but as a people bound by shared purpose. Loving another Jew does not require agreement, and appreciating another Jew does not require seeing the world through the same lens. What matters is the shared neshomah beneath the surface, the spark that unites us despite our differences. When we recognize that spark, unity becomes real, lived, and enduring.
Even before Moshe Rabbeinu was born, this lesson was already being written. Shifra and Puah, his mother and sister, risked their lives to save others. They were renowned for their righteousness and rose to achieve levels of nevuah. Yet, despite their overarching greatness, the Torah refers to them by the names given them for their acts of kindness involving infants. Their identity was chesed. In reward for their chesed, they merited dynasties of Kehunah, Leviyah, and Malchus.
Kindness is greatness.
Moshe Rabbeinu survived because of chesed. A helpless infant, placed in a basket among the reeds, was saved by Basya, the daughter of Paroh. She named him Moshe, “because I drew him from the water.” The Maharal teaches that although Moshe had many names, this is the one by which he is eternally known, because it reflects an act of compassion. The Torah is Toras Chesed. Even Hashem calls Moshe by a name rooted in kindness.
Moshe’s greatness did not come from the palace. It came from his heart. The Torah says, “Vayigdalhayeled— And the youth grew.” How? “Vayeitzeielechovvayarbesivlosam.” He left comfort behind and went out to feel the pain of his brothers. Though raised as royalty, walled off from what was going on, he took it upon himself to leave the blissful comfort of the royal palace to view what was happening in the lives of the lower classes. The suffering that he saw changed him forever.
When he saw a Jew being beaten, he intervened. When he saw a Jew striking another Jew, he recoiled in horror. “Acheinnodahadovor,” he cried. Now I understand. Redemption cannot come where Jews fight one another. Disunity locks the gates of geulah.
That day’s events forced him to leave Mitzrayim. Upon escaping to Midyon, Moshe’s first act was chesed, standing up for vulnerable strangers at a well. That kindness led to his future, his family, and his destiny.
The Sefer Hachareidim writes at the conclusion of the sefer that prior to his passing from this world, Yaakov Avinu called for his sons, the twelve shevotim, and said to them, “Hikovtzuv’shimubnei Yaakov — Gather together the sons of Yaakov.” He then told them that they should rid their hearts of jealousy, hatred, and competition, and view each other as if they are one person with one soul. Yaakov told them that if they could not achieve that unity, the Shechinah would not be able to rest among them.
The Rishonim (Rashi, Rabbeinu Bachya, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam) explain the pesukim (Shemos 29:45–46) which state that Am Yisroel “should know that I, Hashem Elokeihem, took them out of Mitzrayim so that I can dwell among them.” They write that this means that Hashem took us out of Mitzrayimin order for us to build the Mishkon. This denotes that they were unified at the time of YetziasMitzrayim or else they would not have been redeemed, for the Shechinah can only rest among us, and in the Mishkon, where we are united. Had we not been b’achdus, and had there been peirud, Hashem would not have removed us from there.
The pattern repeats throughout history. In every golus and every geulah, chesed and achdus are decisive. They carried us out of Mitzrayim, and they will carry us forward again.
If we remember who we are, if we reach for one another instead of turning away, we can build something radiant and enduring. Even small acts of appreciation — a kind word, a gesture of help — ripple outward, strengthening the bonds that protect and sustain the klal.
Our Torah is Toras Moshe, the inheritance of a gentle shepherd who led with compassion. It must be taught and lived in a way that builds people, not breaks them. Greatness is tied to sensitivity to the klal and to every individual within it. Such sensitivity awakens Heavenly mercy. Greatness is formed through many small acts of kindness born of an appreciation for every person and their needs and emotions.
The Torah says that after the passing of all the shevotim, there arose a “new” Paroh who did not know Yosef. Rashi explains that according to one view, this was not a new king at all. It was the same Paroh, who chose to pretend that Yosef had never existed. Gratitude became inconvenient. History was rewritten.
This tactic is ancient and familiar: Isolate, discredit, demonize.
The newly installed president of Venezuela and other leftists and anti-Semites blamed “the Zionists” for President Trump’s takedown of the dictator Nicolas Maduro. Facts were distorted, history was bent, and Jews were once again cast as convenient villains for events they did not create.
Actions concurrent with the inauguration of New York City’s new mayor were disconcerting to many Jews who are concerned about the direction he will take.
As Shabbos departs and the melavamalka candles flicker, we feel the ache of transition, from light to labor, from holiness to struggle. We sing, “Al tiraavdi Yaakov.” Do not fear. With the voice, restraint, and faith of Yaakov, we can endure.
Together, we hold the key to redemption. We come from different lands, speak different languages, and follow different customs. But beneath it all, we are family. One on one, Jews get along. We must not allow labels to tear us apart.
Where others bring darkness, we must bring light. Where others sow loneliness, we must offer brotherhood. When we are divided, Amaleik gains strength. When we stand k’ishechadb’levechad, no force can overcome us.
We cry together. We rejoice together. We live for one another. We have tasted what redemption feels like.
Let us hold onto that taste. Let us strengthen achdus, deepen love, and remember that we are part of something larger than ourselves so that we can merit the geulah.
Unity does not mean sameness. Achdus does not demand that we think alike, dress alike, or experience life in the same way. Klal Yisroel has always been a tapestry woven from different strands, from the time of the twelve shevotim, each distinct in nature and approach, each bringing a different koach to the same sacred mission. Yehudah’s leadership, Yissochor’s depth, and Zevulun’s support are not competing paths, but complementary ones.
Our diversity is not a sign of weakness. It is a source of strength. A people built from many perspectives is more resilient, more complete, and better able to meet complex challenges. When different strengths stand together, blind spots are covered, balance is created, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Achdus is not forged by erasing difference, but by weaving difference into a shared purpose.
Loving another Jew does not depend on agreement. Appreciating another Jew does not require us to see the world through identical lenses. It asks only that we recognize the shared shoreshbeneath the surface, the common destiny that binds us together even when our paths look different. We do not have to blur distinctions in order to maintain connection.
When differences are handled gently, they enrich us. When they are handled harshly, they wound. Achdus is sustained not by winning debates, but by preserving dignity. It grows when we listen a little longer, judge a little less, and remember that the person before us is more than a position or a label.
Every Jew carries a cheilekElokamimaal, a spark of the Divine worthy of care and respect. When we speak kindly, when we give the benefit of the doubt, when we assume sincerity even where we disagree, we create an environment in which unity can breathe. Disagreement does not have to fracture us. Handled with warmth, it can deepen understanding.
Achdus is often built quietly, through patience, restraint, and small acts of consideration. It is found in choosing compassion over suspicion and connection over distance. When we relate to one another as people rather than categories, unity becomes not an ideal, but a lived reality.
There are many lessons for us in the parshiyos of Seder Shemos, but the need for achdus to bring about geulah is a primary one, especially during these times of darkening clouds as we pine for the geulah and Moshiach.
We don’t always have to agree, but when we disagree, it needs to be with respect and without hatred, as bnei and bnosTorah and not as people devoid of middos and derecheretz. Let us work to make ourselves worthy of having the Shechinah dwell among us, so that Hakadosh Boruch Hu can feel confident enough to bring us all home, surrounding the Bais Hamikdosh, with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our day.
{Matzav.com}
