There is a subtle, but decisive, difference between faith and hope—between emunah and tikvah.
They are often spoken of interchangeably, but I don’t believe that they are perfect synonyms. They are partners. They work in tandem. And we need both.
Emunah says: Whatever happens is the will of Hashem. Even when it hurts. Even when it makes no sense. Even when the outcome feels bitter and final. Faith accepts.
Hope says something else entirely. Hope says: I believe Hashem wants me to yearn. To anticipate yeshuah. To live with eyes lifted even while the road ahead is dark. We must carry both.
We say it every day, often without pausing to hear the weight of the words: Ki lishuasecha kivinu kol hayom. We hope and wait for Your salvation all day.
Chazal teach us that one of the questions a person is asked in the Bais Din Shel Maalah is: “Tzipisa l’yeshuah? Did you wait for salvation?”
Many understand that question as referring to the ultimate redemption, the long-awaited arrival of Moshiach, but I recently heard in the name of Rav Nosson Wachtfogel, mashgiach of Bais Medrash Govoah, that the question is far more personal. It is asked about the private battles of a person’s life. The Ribono Shel Olam wants to know, “In your own tzaros, did you wait for salvation? Did you believe that Hashem could still bring a yeshuah? Did you allow hope to breathe, or did you decide—too early—that the story was already over?”
If belief alone were sufficient, hope would be unnecessary. If suffering were meant to be accepted as the final expression of Divine will, then longing would be misplaced. Why wait for salvation if loss—and pain and misery, too—comes from Hashem? Indeed, we must accept the worst while hoping for the best. Hashem does not demand that we extinguish our tikvah. He asks us to live with it. Hope is not denial of the actuality. It is the stamina that lets us envision a better future.
It is the call of Mama Rochel: “Yeish tikvah le’achariseich.”
There is a story about Alexander the Great. Before embarking on a long and dangerous campaign, he distributed nearly all of his wealth to his loyal followers. One of his generals, astonished, asked, “What have you reserved for yourself?”
Alexander answered with a single word: “Hope.”
The followers returned the gifts. “If you have kept hope for yourself,” they said, “then we who share your labor shall share your hope.”
People can survive without money if they believe there is a future. Take away hope and even abundance feels hollow.
Years ago, our family faced a medical crisis. Locally, we were told that there were no real options left. A physician in New York suggested something a bit out of the New York box. “Try a doctor and a hospital in North Carolina, on the campus of Duke University.”
We arrived far from home. No familiar faces. Not too many amenities. No Bikur Cholim rooms (at the time). But before we saw a doctor, before we heard a prognosis, before we even checked in, we saw a large sign that quietly reframed everything.
“AT DUKE, THERE IS HOPE.”
It was not a promise. It was a perspective. And that perspective kept us standing.
With that in mind, the Torah’s ending of Sefer Bereishis suddenly comes into focus.
Bereishis does not close with resolution. It closes with a coffin. A sealed coffin. “Vayisem ba’aron b’Mitzrayim.” Yosef is not buried in Eretz Yisroel. He is not brought home. He is placed in a box, in a foreign land—and the Torah ends.
And then the kehillah rises and declares, almost joyously: “Chazak! Chazak! Venischazeik!”
It feels jarring. Would it not have been more fitting to conclude with Yaakov’s burial in Eretz Yisroel, with reconciliation, with closure? Why end the foundational sefer of Jewish destiny with a closed box in exile?
Because that box is not an ending. It is a promise. It is a box filled with the father of hope. The tzaddik cast asunder and subject to the most difficult experiences that any of his forebears had endured.
Thus, Yosef does not ask to be buried immediately. He asks to be remembered. He leaves behind four words that outlive him: “Pakod yifkod Elokim eschem—Hashem will surely remember you.’ And only when He does, you will take me with you.
That coffin becomes a silent companion of hope to a nation in exile. It travels with them in memory. It is carried by Moshe Rabbeinu. It splits the sea. It teaches a people that waiting is not wasted time, and delay is not abandonment.
Exile without hope is unbearable. Golus and pain with hope become temporary.
On the last day of Chanukah, once again, Klal Yisroel celebrated the eight anniversary of the sudden salvation of a man locked in a cage for eight years. Throughout his ordeal, Reb Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin strengthened others. He wrote letters to children about emunah. He kept sedorim in Chovos Halevavos and sifrei chassidus. Courts said no. Presidents said no. And yet, in the waning hours of the eighth day of Chanukah, the words of Al Hanissim rang unexpectedly true.
As long as he sat in that cage, his message of faith—and of hope—became a lifeline for others who felt forgotten. And that is why we end where we do. And that is why we respond as we do.
We shout Chazak not despite the coffin, but because of what it represents.
Faith tells us that whatever happens is from Hashem. Hope tells us that Hashem wants us to believe that what happens next can still encompass yeshuah. The yearning for salvation is our DNA.
And that combination, more than anything else, is what has carried us through every box, every exile, and every long wait.
Yeish tikvah le’achariseich. There is hope for our future. It will come soon!
Just saying.
