When “Trust in Hashem” Feels Like One More Thing You’re Failing At

The house is finally quiet. It’s a silence you’ve fought for all day, a silence that should feel like peace but instead lands with the weight of tomorrow. You stand alone in the kitchen, the soft glow from under the cabinets illuminating the day’s final task: a single, forgotten teacup in the sink.

As you wash it, you feel the day settle into your bones—the endless caregiving, the emotional labor, the constant hum of responsibility, the faint stickiness of spilled juice still on your hands. Everyone knows you as the strong one, the one who holds it all together. But here, in the quiet, you feel the truth: a hollowness so profound it echoes. This isn't strength; it is spiritual exhaustion masked as strength, and you are running on empty. You are depleted, and the faith that is meant to be your wellspring feels impossibly far away.

The Silent Ache of a Faithful Heart

You say the words. You do the actions. You believe with your whole heart. So why does it feel like you’re running on fumes? Why does the emuna that’s supposed to sustain you feel like another standard you can't meet?

You listen to the shiurim, you say your Tehillim, you try to feel that perfect, peaceful trust. But late at night, when the house is still, the ache in your soul is louder than any promise. It whispers that you are not doing enough, not feeling enough, not trusting enough. It feels like you are failing at the one thing that should be saving you.

Let me tell you something with all the certainty in my soul: You’re not broken, you’re overextended. Hashem is not disappointed in your exhaustion. Your struggle is not a sign that your faith is flawed; it is a sign that you have been giving everything you have.

What if Emuna Isn't a Feeling?

We are often taught, implicitly, that emuna—faith and trust in Hashem—is a feeling. A constant state of serene calm, a peaceful heart that never wavers. When we don't feel it, especially when life is demanding everything from us, we think we have failed. But what if we’ve misunderstood the assignment?

Faith as an Action, Not an Emotion

Jewish thought frames faith not as a passive emotional state, but as an active, experiential process. Judaism is an experiential religion that requires active "doing." Faith isn't something you have; it’s something you do. It is our ability to trust life while taking the next step. Even when the feeling isn't there, the act of taking that next small step—washing the teacup, getting into bed, breathing in and out—is itself an act of profound faith.

The Purpose of a World That Asks for So Much

The great sage Ramchal explains in Derekh Hashem that humanity was intentionally created in a state "between perfection and deficiency," and that it is "in their hands to earn perfection." Your struggle is not an accident or a sign of your failure. It is the very landscape upon which you were created to exist. So, the tension you feel is not a bug in the system; it is the system itself. You were placed here, in this beautiful, demanding life, precisely to do this work of choosing connection when everything in you feels disconnected. This is not your failing; this is your holy work.

The Emuna of a Simple Conversation

When you are this tired, the thought of formal prayer can feel like being asked to climb a mountain. The words feel heavy, the intention out of reach. But what if prayer isn't a performance?

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov teaches that it is very good to "pour out your thoughts before God, like a child pleading before his father." Hashem calls us His children. And as the Sages affirm, "For good or for evil you are always called His children."

Think of a small child, overwhelmed and exhausted, who comes to a loving parent. The child doesn't clean up their tears or organize their thoughts before running into their father's arms. They come with the tantrum, the exhaustion, the mess. You do not need to fix your feelings before you turn to Him. You can bring the unedited, unfiltered, exhausted truth of your heart directly to your Father. And know this: that raw, honest turning, even when it feels like a complaint, is more than just a plea for help. It is the work of a soldier in the King's army, strengthening the very fabric of holiness with your honesty.

One Gentle Invitation to Return

Right now, you do not need another obligation. You need a gentle return to yourself and to the Source of your life. Here is a small, embodied invitation, not a command.

The author of Duties of the Heart teaches that we can use the world as a "ladder by which to obtain proofs of the existence of the Creator." Before you go to sleep tonight, allow your eyes to rest on one small, tangible "mark of divine wisdom" in your reality. Acknowledge one detail of the created world that works without any effort from you.

It could be:

• The way a sleeping infant can drink milk without choking.

• The memory of a single seed you planted that grew into a vast plant.

• The simple feeling of shame that holds us back from harming one another, a silent protector of our humanity.

This is the very essence of "faith as an action"—not a grand gesture, but a small, deliberate turn of your attention. It is the quietest, most powerful doing.

Find just one. Notice it. And then, just whisper, "Thank you for this." That is all. It is an act of seeing, not striving. It is an act of receiving, not giving more.

You Are Not Failing. You Are Completing.

That single teacup, washed in the lonely silence of your kitchen, felt like evidence of your depletion. But what if that feeling of being spent, of being the foul-smelling part of the day, is not the end of the story? What if it is the beginning of the offering?

There is a deep secret in the Torah about the ketoret, the holy incense offered in the Temple. The recipe, given by Hashem Himself, contained many beautiful fragrances like balsam and frankincense. But the Torah commands that it must also include an ingredient called chelbanah, or galbanum. By itself, chelbanah has a foul, unpleasant odor. Yet, without it, the holy incense was incomplete and invalid.

From this, the Sages teach a profound lesson: a prayer that does not include the sinners of Israel is not a true prayer.

Your exhaustion is not a flaw to be hidden from God. Your feelings of failure, your moments of doubt, your silent, aching heart—this is your chelbanah. It is the necessary, honest, and utterly human ingredient that makes the collective prayer of our people real and whole. Without the parts of us that are struggling, our offering is not complete.

Your exhaustion is not a sign of your failure; it is a holy offering, completing us all. You are not alone. Take my hand. We will walk this path together.

NotebookLM can be inaccurate; please double check its responses.

6 Surprising Spiritual Lessons Hidden in Plain Sight in Jewish Scripture

The stories of our scripture are like ancient heirlooms, polished by familiarity until we forget the fiery secrets locked within their core. We know of Moses at the burning bush, Jacob and his two wives, and Abraham the patriarch. They often exist in our minds as simple moral tales, foundational stories of faith and history.

But hidden just beneath the surface of these well-known narratives are layers of profound, counter-intuitive, and deeply human insights. The Torah and its vast body of commentary are not just a record of the past but a living, breathing text that reveals a richer and more complex spiritual universe than we might imagine. This post explores six such surprising takeaways that challenge common assumptions and reveal a deeper wisdom embedded in scripture.

1. The Rabbi Who Argued with G-d and Stole Sins from Satan

On the solemn Day of Judgment, Rosh Hashanah, the synagogue in Berditchev was filled with prayer. The famed Chassidic master, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak, was leading the service. As he reached the pivotal prayer “l'Kel Orech Din” (“To the G-d Who Sits in Judgment”), his face turned pale, his prayer shawl slipped from his head, and he stood frozen, as if his soul had left his body. Then, after a few moments, his face lit up with joy, and he cried out the next words with triumphant relief: “l'Koneh avadav b'din!” (“Who acquires His servants in judgment!”). Later, he explained the spiritual vision he had just witnessed.

He saw Satan arrive before the heavenly court, dragging a massive sack filled with the sins of the Jewish people collected over the past year: lashon hara (gossip), sinat chinam (baseless hatred), neglect of Torah study, and more. The Rabbi’s heart sank in despair as the great accuser prepared to present his case. But just then, Satan’s sharp eyes spotted a Jew committing a new sin on Rosh Hashanah itself. Eager to add it to his collection, he dropped his sack and raced off to snatch the fresh transgression.

Seizing the moment, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak rushed to the abandoned sack. He began examining the sins one by one, and for each, he found a justification. This sin was caused by the bitterness of exile; that one by wretched poverty; another by simple ignorance. As he considered each transgression with compassion, it melted away and vanished. He continued until the entire sack was empty.

Satan returned to find his hard-won collection of sins gone. Enraged, he realized who was responsible and seized the Rabbi. "Thief!" he shrieked, "You will pay for what you have stolen!" He dragged Rabbi Levi Yitzchak before G-d's throne, demanding that if the Rabbi could not pay, he must be sold into servitude to cover the debt. Satan offered the Rabbi to the angels, but none would “buy” him. Finally, he hauled him before G-d Himself. After hearing the case, G-d declared, "I will acquire him from you, Satan."

This, the Rabbi explained, was the hidden meaning of the prayer. The service begins by framing G-d as a fearsome judge (Orech Din), but Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s revelation transforms this understanding. In the phrase “l'Koneh avadav b'din,” he saw that G-d does not just judge His servants, but acquires them through that very judgment. He “buys” us, redeeming us from our failings with mercy. The story presents a stunning vision of G-d not as a prosecutor but as our ultimate defender, shifting the dynamic from prosecution to loving acquisition.

2. The "Unloved" Matriarch Who Gave Rise to Royalty and Priesthood

The story of Leah, Jacob's first wife, is often framed as a tragedy of being the unloved and overlooked sister. She is remembered as the wife Jacob married through trickery, the one whose eyes were "soft"—a feature many commentators say was from her constant weeping over her destiny to marry the wicked Esau. Scripture itself states that "G-d saw that Leah was despised."

Yet, this "unloved" matriarch gave birth to the very backbone of Jewish leadership. Her son Levi was the forefather of the entire priestly clan, the spiritual servants of the nation. And her son Judah was the ancestor of the royal Davidic dynasty, from which the Messiah himself will ultimately descend.

Far from being defined by bitterness, the Talmud holds Leah up as a paradigm of gratitude. As Rabbi Yochanan states:

"From the day G‑d created the world, no one thanked Him, until Leah expressed her gratitude. We thus read, ‘[She became pregnant and gave birth to a son, and she said], ‘This time I will give thanks (odeh) to G‑d,’ and he was called Judah.’”

Leah’s story powerfully subverts the worldly value of external validation. While the biblical narrative seems to focus on Jacob’s romantic love for Rachel, the eternal legacy of the Jewish people—its priesthood and its royalty—flows directly from the perceived "unloved" wife. This teaches that divine purpose operates on a plane far beyond human romance and preference. It was Leah’s internal character—her resilience and her revolutionary sense of gratitude—that defined her eternal contribution and shaped the destiny of her people.

3. The Real Reason Moses Argued With G-d at the Burning Bush

When G-d first appears to Moses at the burning bush and tasks him with redeeming the Israelites, Moses hesitates. This is one of the most famous dialogues in the Torah. His reluctance is often interpreted as simple humility—he pleads that he is unworthy and has a speech impediment, making him unfit for such a monumental mission.

Chassidic teachings, however, reveal a far deeper and more selfless motive. For seven days and nights, Moses argued with G-d not because he felt inadequate, but because he loved his people too much.

His final plea to G-d was, "Send by the hand of him whom You shall send." The Sages explain that he was asking G-d to skip his mission entirely and instead send the final redeemer—the Messiah—to bring about an eternal redemption.

Moses prophetically understood that the redemption he would lead would be temporary. The people would sin, the Temple would be destroyed, and they would be forced into a long and bitter exile once more. To spare his people all that future suffering, he was willing to forgo his own historic role as their liberator. He was even prepared to incur G-d's anger by refusing the mission, if it meant securing a permanent, final salvation for them instead.

This reframes Moses's argument from an act of humility into the ultimate act of leadership. It presents a leader so selfless that he would rather be erased from history than see his people suffer again in the future. His priority was not his own destiny, but the permanent well-being of his flock.

4. How Isaac Digging Wells Predicted 2,000 Years of Jewish History

A seemingly minor episode in the Book of Genesis—Isaac's efforts to dig wells in the land of the Philistines—holds a stunning prophecy. This is unlocked through a fundamental key to understanding Jewish history: the mystical concept of maase avos siman l’banim. This principle teaches that the actions of the forefathers are not just stories or allegories, but causative spiritual templates that shaped the very DNA of their descendants' future. The lives of the Patriarchs are a divine code, a spiritual blueprint for all of Jewish history.

During a famine, Isaac settles in the Philistine city of Gerar. He re-digs the wells his father Abraham had dug, but the local shepherds fight with him over the water. He moves on, digs new wells, and faces continuous opposition until he finally finds a place of peace. This narrative maps out the entire pattern of the Jewish experience in exile with uncanny precision.

• Migration and Prosperity: Isaac arrives in a foreign land during a famine and prospers immensely. (Parallel: Jews migrate to new lands, often fleeing hardship, and achieve economic success.)

• Jealousy and Opposition: The Philistines grow jealous of his wealth and stop up the wells his father had dug. (Parallel: The host nation becomes resentful, leading to animosity and anti-Jewish discrimination.)

• Expulsion: The king, Abimelech, tells Isaac to leave because he has become "too powerful." (Parallel: Jews are expelled from country after country throughout history.)

• Finding Peace: Isaac relocates, digs a new well called "Rechovot" ("spaciousness"), and finally finds a place where "they did not fight over it." (Parallel: The Jewish people find refuge and build new communities in other lands.)

This insight transforms a simple pastoral story into a profound historical paradigm. It teaches that the cycles of wandering, persecution, and brief periods of peace are not random historical accidents or meaningless chaos. They are part of a known, pre-ordained cycle embedded into the spiritual DNA of the Jewish people from their very beginning. This framework provides not only a way to understand history but also a deep source of resilience, showing that even the most painful struggles are part of a divine narrative that ultimately leads to finding our own "Rechovot"—a place of peace.

5. Why the Bible Skips Abraham’s Most Heroic Backstory

According to the Midrash and Maimonides, Abraham's early life was the stuff of legend. He was a spiritual revolutionary who, through his own intellect, discovered the one G-d in a world of paganism. He smashed his father's idols and bravely stood up to the tyrant King Nimrod, surviving being thrown into a fiery furnace.

It's a dramatic and inspiring story, yet the Torah is completely silent about it. The scriptural narrative of Abraham begins abruptly when he is 75 years old, with G-d's command: "Go for yourself from your land... to the land that I will show you."

The reason for this omission is profoundly instructive. Abraham's early life, his independent discovery of G-d, was his own unique, personal accomplishment. It was a level of spiritual greatness born of his singular soul, a path not necessarily expected from, or accessible to, everyone else.

The Torah is not just a history book; it's a guidebook for every Jewish person. Therefore, it begins Abraham's story at the precise moment his journey becomes our journey. His life becomes a template for his descendants from the moment he acts not on his own insight, but in response to a Divine command—a path that is open to all.

The lesson is that the Torah’s purpose is not merely to recount the unrelatable feats of spiritual giants. Its purpose is to empower us. It starts Abraham's narrative at the point where his life ceases to be his story alone and becomes the blueprint for our own relationship with G-d.

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6. Rachel's Lonely Grave: A Mother's Eternal Watchpost

The death of the Matriarch Rachel is one of the most heartbreaking scenes in Genesis. Beloved by Jacob, she dies in childbirth while bearing her second son, Benjamin. In his grief, Jacob buries her on the side of the road near Bethlehem, rather than in the ancestral Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron with the other Patriarchs and Matriarchs. On the surface, it seems a sad, lonely end.

But Jewish tradition teaches that this was no accident. Rachel's roadside grave was part of a divine plan, positioning her to become the eternal guardian of her children. Centuries later, when the Babylonians would destroy the Temple and lead the Jewish people into exile, the mournful procession would pass directly by her tomb.

The prophet Jeremiah paints a vivid picture of this moment, describing Rachel's spirit rising from her grave to plead with G-d on behalf of her descendants.

“A voice is heard on high, lamentation, bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, for they are not.”

G-d is so moved by her maternal tears that He responds directly to her with a promise of redemption:

“Restrain your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears . . . and they shall come back from the land of the enemy... and the children shall return to their own border.”

This understanding transforms Rachel's tragic death into an act of eternal motherhood. She is not a forgotten figure in a lonely grave, but an ever-present advocate, a mother whose selfless love ensures the ultimate return of her scattered children. Her tomb is not a place of abandonment, but an eternal watchpost of hope.

Conclusion: The Unfolding Story

These six examples are but a glimpse into the depths of meaning that lie just beneath the surface of familiar biblical texts. They show us that these narratives are not static historical accounts but are alive with endless layers of spiritual, psychological, and historical wisdom. They are teachings that continue to unfold, offering new insights to every generation that engages with them.

If these few tales can so radically reframe our understanding, what other universes of meaning await us in the scriptures we thought we already knew?

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