Tetzaveh 5785: Hadar & The Beginning of Redemption

When you greet someone, you usually ask, “How are you?” 

But these days, I sometimes add, “Except for the world, how are you?”

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The world feels heavy right now—Israel, the hostages, Ukraine, divisions in our own country, natural disasters—the list goes on. 

Personally, I find myself only really paying attention to the news about the hostages and, of course, sports—the Celtics and Spring Training.

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Given the weight of the world, I was especially looking forward to attending the Hadar Rabbinic Intensive, an opportunity for deep Jewish learning in a way I haven’t experienced since rabbinical school. By the way, Hadar offers fantastic in-person (in New York and Boston) and online programs. So, Rabbi Willis and our own Rabbi Einsidler and I headed down for a few packed days of study—a welcome escape from everything else on my mind.

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On the train, I eagerly flipped through the course offerings:

“Your Gathering Will Save You from the World…”

“A Jewish Narrative of Division”

“What Do Rabbis Cry About?”

“Hatred, Rebuke…” (Thankfully, there was also “Humility”!)

Then, one that stood out: “The Beginnings of Redemption: How to Recognize the Coming of the Messiah.”

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With everything going on, the idea that we could really use the Messiah was, frankly, a little depressing. 

But this course also offered hope. So I took this two-day Talmudic deep dive, taught by Rabbi Avi Strausberg, where we explored classic rabbinic sources and commentaries. And in the process, I found sparks of something powerful.

* * *

After the destruction of the Second Temple and Jerusalem by the Romans two thousand years ago, the Jewish world was gripped by despair. The rabbis responded in different ways. One Talmudic passage explains that people turned to mystical speculation, trying to predict when the Messiah would come to rescue them. 

But other sages warned against this, saying that setting a date for the Messiah’s arrival would only lead to disappointment (Sanhedrin 97b).

Rabbi Yohanan added this insight:

“In the generation when the Messiah, son of David, comes, Torah scholars will dwindle, and the rest of the people will be overcome with sorrow and grief. Troubles will increase, and harsh decrees will follow, one after another, before the first even passes.” (Sanhedrin 97a)

In other words, before the Messiah comes—before an era of peace—there will be turmoil, hardship, and confusion.

It sounds eerily familiar.

Faced with this bleak vision, Rabbi Yosef pushes back: “Haven’t we seen [these terrible events] many such times before? And yet, the Messiah has not come.”

But the rabbis also taught that even in the midst of war and destruction, we can find the ethalta d’geulah—the beginning of redemption (Megillah 17b). 

Even in ruin, there are sparks of a new reality, the seeds of a different tomorrow.

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This idea appears in many places in our tradition. Writing in the aftermath of Israel’s early wars, in the Netivot Shalom, Rabbi Shalom Noah Berezovsky reflected on the moment when Joseph was sold into slavery. 

Based on rabbinic midrashim, he explains that while the brothers were plotting, Judah was searching for a wife, and Jacob was mourning his missing son, God was quietly setting events in motion for the birth of Peretz—an ancestor of King David, and ultimately, the Messiah.

At first glance, Joseph being sold into slavery, essentially, taken hostage seems like an unredeemable tragedy. But the Netivot Shalom explains:

“Before any new growth, there must first be absence or decay. A seed, destined to sprout, must first decay, leaving only a ‘spark of light’ (kusta d’hiyuta) within it.”

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That spark is the refusal to accept things as they are—the insistence that things can and must be different.

For the rabbis, this refusal to resign ourselves to despair takes many forms: mourning, fasting, repenting, working on ourselves. 

These sparks of light, small as they may seem, spread goodness into the world and help manifest change. A single point of light can be found even in the deepest darkness—or perhaps, is most visible precisely in the dark, as our eyes adjust and allow us to notice even the faintest glimmer.

We see this in the story of Purim, which we will celebrate this Thursday night. 

The Jewish people were in despair. 

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But Esther and Mordekhai did not give in to hopelessness. 

They fasted.

Mordekhai cried out. 

But his cry was one of hope.

Throughout history, our people have survived by refusing to accept our circumstances. Whether through fasting, self-improvement, acts of love and kindness, or fighting for justice, we have always found a way to resist despair. 

When we cried out in Egypt, God heard our suffering.

So today, let us also refuse to give in to despair. Let us notice the sparks of redemption all around us. As we fast in remembrance of Esther’s fast before Purim and celebrate our redemption with drink and joy, let us lift up the glimmers of light that surrounds us.

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Hope and healing are always present, waiting to be uncovered.

Sometimes, we just need to do a little more to see them—and to help them take root.