I remembering hearing from my rosh yeshiva, Rav Elya Svei, in the name of the Chasam Sofer, that the astonishing capacity Jews have demonstrated throughout history to give their lives al kiddush Hashem, and at times even to surrender what is most precious to them, did not manifest spontaneously. It is not merely courage, nor temperament. It is most certainly not the normative behavior of anyone. The great mesirus nefesh that Yidden have displayed from time immemorial is a spiritual endowment that was implanted at the very beginning of our national story. It began with Avrohom Avinu.
From Ur Kasdim to the Akeidah, mesirus nefesh was inherently sowed within the collective soul of Klal Yisroel. At Akeidas Yitzchok, Avrohom was asked to give up more than a son. He was asked to relinquish the entire future of Klal Yisroel. Yitzchok was not simply a child. He was the continuity of the promise, the embodiment of everything Avrohom had built. And yet Avrohom was prepared to proceed, because it was the ratzon Hashem. The Chasam Sofer explained that this act of mesirus nefesh did not end in Ur Kasdim or on Har Hamoriah. It implanted a permanent koach within the souls of Avrohom’s descendants, the ability to surrender everything when called upon without calculation and without compromise.
These two acts—sacrificing oneself and sacrificing one’s future—became woven into the spiritual fabric of the Jewish people. They carry on into eternity.
That is why, dor achar dor, Jews of the simplest backgrounds, with no training in heroism and no preparation for martyrdom, have stood firm in moments of fire and sword. They did not always articulate why. They simply knew that they could not do otherwise. It was not only mesirus nefesh. It is our morasha.
The rosh yeshiva often spoke about this power of continuity, about how the acts of our forebears are transmitted for eternity. He once pointed to a striking detail in the Akeidah that often goes unnoticed. Avrohom Avinu received the command directly from the Ribono Shel Olam. Yitzchok Avinu did not. Yitzchok heard it from his father. And yet, not only did he go willingly, but he asked to be tied securely lest an involuntary movement invalidate the korban.
That moment, Rav Elya suggested, may be the first expression of what we later call emunas chachomim. Yitzchok was not responding to a heavenly voice. He was responding to mesorah, to the word of Avrohom Avinu. The willingness to trust, to submit, and to act decisively based on transmitted truth rather than personal revelation became another strand in the Jewish inheritance.
For many years, however, something else troubled me.
Jewish history repeatedly presents us with figures who were raised far from Torah observance, sometimes entirely ignorant of what Judaism truly entails. And yet, the moment they discover that they are Jewish—or grasp what that identity demands—they respond not gradually, but immediately. There was no prolonged adjustment or tentative exploration. From the moment they realized their Yiddishkeit, they acted with startling clarity and courage. They became fierce advocates for Yiddishkeit and even from fellow Jews to whom they were formerly apathetic.
Where does that come from?
I hope that I am not taking a big jump here, but our middos come from our forebears. And thus I turn to a brief but astonishing comment of the Ramban on last week’s parsha. On the words “Vayeitzei el echav,” the Ramban explains that Moshe Rabbeinu went out because he had been told that he was Jewish. Until that moment, Moshe had lived his life in the palace of Paroh, immersed in Egyptian culture, surrounded by avodah zarah, insulated from the suffering of his people. He did not grow up in a home of mitzvos. He did not learn Torah in a cheder. He was informed of his identity and then an immediate transformation occurred.
And the Ramban continues. Moshe wanted to see the Jews because they were his brothers. When Moshe looked upon the burdens and suffering of his brothers, and when he saw what he saw, “lo yachol lisbol, he could not bear it.” That knowledge alone created obligation. The very discovery that he was Jewish awakened a strength that demanded action. A man who had only just learned who he was could not remain neutral. And so, when he saw an Egyptian striking a Jew, he intervened decisively.
Perhaps the Torah is teaching us about the latent power within the Jewish soul that does not require gradual cultivation. Although he is not one of the avos, as the rebbi to Klal Yisroel, he showed that even if Yiddishkeit lies dormant until the moment of recognition, it can suddenly transform. Once a Jew understands, even in the most elemental way, that “these are my brothers,” something ignites. The strength to stand up, to protest, to sacrifice, to endanger oneself for another Jew is not learned behavior. It is inherited.
That is why, centuries later, we encounter Jews like Yosef Mendelevitch who was raised in the Soviet Union, where Judaism was reduced to a nationality stamped in an internal passport. He had no Torah education and no exposure to mitzvah observance. When he finally understood that being Jewish was not merely a label but an obligation, he hurled himself into it. In prison camps and labor gulags, he kept Shabbos, refused non-kosher food, fashioned tefillin from scraps, fasted on Yom Kippur, and endured punishment rather than surrender mitzvos he had only just begun to understand.
Maybe that’s what ignited the sparks of Reb Nathan Birnbaum, who transformed from Zionist to a fierce advocate for Torah Yiddishkeit. I am sure every reader of this column knows of someone who immediately and powerfully transformed almost instantaneously into a passionate advocate for Yidden. That strength may have come from the ultimate rebbi we had, the greatest and most passionate advocate for Klal Yisroel, who transformed with one look at his tormented brothers.
From Avrohom Avinu, who planted mesirus nefesh into our spiritual inheritance, to Yitzchok Avinu, who demonstrated trust in mesorah, to Moshe Rabbeinu, whose first act upon discovering his identity was one of courageous intervention, that power has been passed down intact. It waits, sometimes for decades, sometimes for generations, until the moment a Jew discovers who he is.
And when he sees the torment that Yidden and bnei Torah are experiencing, then, suddenly, lo yachol lisbol.
Just saying.
