Mountains are central to our history. The first mountain we encounter is Har Hamoriah, where Avrohom Avinu approached to bring his son Yitzchok as a korban.

On that mountain, malochim appeared to Avrohom and Yitzchok. On that mountain, Yaakov Avinu experienced kedusha and received tremendous brachos. On that mountain, the Bais Hamikdosh was built.

The mountain that hosted so much holiness also experienced great tragedy. Though it witnessed immense kedusha, during the time of the churban its holiness was defiled and tumah found a resting place there. We anxiously await the day when the Shechinah will once again return there together with the Bais Hamikdosh Hashlishi.

The Torah also speaks about Har Gerizim and Har Eivol, the mountains near Shechem. Upon one, eternal brachos were proclaimed. Upon the other, eternal curses were declared for those who do not follow the Torah. The mountain of blessings was lush and green, while the other remained barren and desolate. They remain that way until today.

In Nach, we read about the mountain upon which Eliyohu Hanovi confronted the false prophets of the avodah zorah known as Baal.

But of all the mountains, the one most central to who we are is Har Sinai. Though physically small, it towers over the entire landscape of Jewish history. On Shavuos, we picture millions of Yidden encamped around it, overwhelmed with tangible awe. They had traveled for forty-five days, following Moshe Rabbeinu through a hot and dusty desert in order to reach it.

Their journey had truly begun at brias ha’olam, when the world itself was created. The nation was moving toward its ultimate destiny. Bereishis, Chazal teach us, bishvil haTorah shenikreis reishis – the world was created so that the Torah could eventually be given to the Jewish people.

There was thunder and lightning. The sound of the shofar echoed powerfully, growing louder and louder. Smoke rose from the mountain, which stood beneath a thick cloud. The Divine Voice reverberated throughout creation, shaking the foundations of the earth. The Bnei Yisroel trembled with fear as they watched their leader ascend the mountain and disappear into the arofel, the thick fog.

On Shavuos, as we revisit the story of Moshe Rabbeinu ascending Har Sinai, we are reminded that the road to the highest levels of kedusha is rarely smooth or clear. More often, it passes through fog, smoke, and uncertainty. The Torah tells us, “Vayavo Moshe besoch he’anan,” and later, “Moshe nigash el ha’arofel asher shom ha’Elokim.” Moshe entered the cloud and approached the dense darkness where Hashem’s Presence rested. Moshe Rabbeinu did not receive the Torah beneath calm and peaceful skies. It came amid thunder, lightning, smoke, and heavy fog.

Perhaps that itself was part of the lesson.

A person may think that drawing closer to Hashem always comes with clarity, serenity, and immediate inspiration. But the Torah teaches otherwise. Very often, before reaching greater light, a person must first pass through confusion. Before attaining deeper holiness, he encounters resistance, distraction, and what Chazal call tishtush hamochin, a fogging of the mind and spirit.

Wherever there is kedusha, there is tumah attempting to oppose it. The greater the potential for holiness, the stronger the forces that seek to obstruct and contaminate it. To demonstrate this, at the very moment the world was about to become forever elevated through Kabbolas HaTorah, Har Sinai was surrounded by arofel, darkness, and smoke.

That pattern has repeated itself throughout history.

Whenever Yidden sought to build Torah, strengthen themselves spiritually, or establish places of purity and growth, opposition inevitably arose. Sometimes the resistance came from external persecution and hardship. At other times, it emerged internally, through confusion, cynicism, temptation, or spiritual exhaustion. The greater and stronger the structure of kedusha becomes, the more aggressively tumah attempts to seep through the cracks and poison it.

Yet, those who seek taharah do not become lost in the fog or frightened by it. They understand that it is part of the process. Moshe Rabbeinu moved forward into the arofel because he knew that beyond it rested the Shechinah itself.

The challenge facing those who strive for greatness in Torah and avodas Hashem is to continue advancing even when clarity fades. To keep learning, davening, building, and striving despite the noise, confusion, and distractions swirling around them. The yeitzer hora tries to convince a person that if he feels uninspired, overwhelmed, or spiritually blocked, he should retreat. But the lesson of Har Sinai teaches the exact opposite. Sometimes, the greatest growth occurs precisely when one pushes through the fog rather than surrendering to it.

This is the foundation of the nisyonos involving emunah and bitachon. It is easy to believe when everything is clear. But we must also recognize the Hand of Hashem when it is hidden, when life becomes difficult and events do not unfold the way we hoped.

Throughout the generations, our forefathers understood this truth. They knew that there are periods of darkness and hester, and that the path to kedusha, survival, and a blessed Yiddishe life is not by avoiding struggle, but by refusing to allow struggle to define or stop us.

That message is especially relevant in our generation, when distractions are endless and confusion is everywhere, when moral boundaries become blurred and spiritual fog surrounds us. We live in an age of superficiality, shortened attention spans, and short memories. It is easy to lose clarity regarding who we are and what we are meant to strive for. This is the modern form of arofel.

We must continue pushing our way through the fog, recognizing that if we persevere – if we maintain our sense of kedusha and Torah values – we can continue climbing until we reach the place we seek, “asher shom ha’Elokim,” the place beyond the darkness where Hashem resides.

The Brisker Rov was the mesader kiddushin at a wedding. Standing under the chupah, it came time for the chosson to place the ring on the kallah’s finger and declare her his wife. As the young man attempted to put the ring on her finger, he became so nervous that he began shaking and dropped the ring.

His father bent down, picked up the ring from the floor, and handed it back to the chosson. Once again, the chosson’s hand trembled, and as he tried to place the ring on his kallah’s finger, it slipped and fell to the ground. His father picked it up and returned it to him.

The nervous chosson made a third attempt to place the ring on the girl’s finger. Once again, the seemingly simple task escaped him and the ring dropped to the floor. This time, people began murmuring. Someone turned to the rov and remarked, “This seems like a sign that they should not be getting married. Perhaps their match is simply not bashert.”

The rov shook his head. “No, no,” he replied. “This is a sign that the couple was meant to marry now and not three minutes earlier.”

Upon hearing those words, the young man relaxed. His father handed him the ring once more, he placed it on the kallah’s finger, and declared, “Harei at mekudeshes li… kedas Moshe v’Yisroel.”

The study of Torah is difficult, and many times, while learning, we feel as though we are trapped in arofel, lost in a fog of confusion. We cannot follow the back-and-forth of the Gemara or understand the kushya or teretz of Tosafos. We convince ourselves that the sugya is beyond our ability to comprehend. We feel tempted to close the Gemara and find something easier to occupy ourselves with.

But we must remember that this is the way of the Torah. It does not come easily. Nevertheless, we immerse ourselves in it, and after much toil, we slowly begin to understand and appreciate its beauty and brilliance.

Rav Shmuel Auerbach related a story that he heard from a direct witness, ish mipi ish. One of the holy tzaddikim of Yerushalayim possessed a kemei’a that he would lend to people in need of a yeshuah. The Kabbalistic parchment had been written by the Taz, author of the Turei Zohov on Shulchan Aruch. The kemei’a was known to be exceptionally powerful, and many who used it saw their problems resolved.

The owner of the kemei’a was extremely curious about what was written on the concealed parchment that possessed such extraordinary power. Although opening an amulet generally causes it to lose its effectiveness, he reasoned that perhaps he could copy the secret names of Hashem and the malochim written on it onto a new parchment and preserve its power to help those in desperate need.

When he carefully opened the ancient sacred document, he was astonished to discover that it did not contain holy names or the names of ministering angels. Instead, in the handwriting of the Taz, there was only a single sentence: “Dear Creator of the world, in the merit of my deep toil to understand the words of Tosafos in Chullin on daf 96, please bring salvation and blessings to the person wearing this amulet.”

That is the power of Torah. This is the reward for laboring to understand the words of a Tosafos.

The Torah grants life to those who struggle through the arofel in order to understand and absorb its holy words and messages. The strength it gives its faithful adherents is eternal. But to attain a true understanding of Torah, we must possess patience, discipline, and wisdom. We must never give up or surrender.

The first Jews who received the Torah had their own arofel: the slavery of Mitzrayim and the descent into the deepest levels of tumah. Their faith sustained them as they followed Moshe Rabbeinu out of the country and through the Yam Suf. Within forty-nine days, they prepared themselves to receive the Torah at Har Sinai. They fought their way through the fog of Mitzrayim’s tumah and elevated themselves to the highest levels attainable by man.

On Shavuos, we read Megillas Rus, the story of Na’ami and her daughter-in-law, Rus. Two courageous women survived tremendous tragedy and rose above their personal arofel to become the ancestors of Dovid Hamelech and ultimately Moshiach. Rus HaMoaviah rose above the depravity of her homeland and became a devoted giyores. Nothing deterred her from remaining loyal to Torah and the Jewish people. She endured poverty and loneliness while pursuing the path she had chosen. In return, she merited royal descendants and eternal blessings. We continue to await the arrival of her descendant, the ultimate redeemer.

Rus had every reason to return to Moav and to the wealth she had left behind when she married into the family of Elimelech, yet she so eloquently bound her destiny to the Jewish people. Her story inspires us to persevere during difficult times. It is yet another reminder that those who follow the path of Hashem and cling to Torah and mitzvos with determination will ultimately flourish and succeed.

Rather than retreating, she moved forward. Instead of surrendering to what appeared to be overwhelming obstacles, she demonstrated that commitment to Torah is always preferable to any alternative. We, too, must never give up, no matter what difficulties we encounter in the observance or study of Torah.

When Hashem appeared to the Bnei Yisroel and offered them the Torah, they responded in unison, “Na’aseh venishma – We will do and we will hear whatever You tell us.” Their response was so praiseworthy that the Gemara in Maseches Shabbos (88a) relates that afterward, malochim placed two crowns upon the head of every Jew, one for na’aseh and one for nishma. A bas kol rang out proclaiming, “Who taught My children this secret?”

Many ask what was so extraordinary about na’aseh venishma that it elicited such a dramatic response. Perhaps we can explain that by responding in this manner, they were declaring: “Na’aseh – we will live according to the dictates of the Torah and follow its commandments. Venishma – and we will accomplish this through dedicating ourselves to the study of Torah. No difficulty will stop us from working as hard as we can to understand the words of the Torah. We will not become lost or deterred in the arofel.”

Na’aseh venishma. We have been repeating that pledge for thousands of years. Wherever we are, whatever language we speak, regardless of our geographical distance from major Jewish centers, despite the ravages of exile, golus, churban, and pogroms, we continue proclaiming together, “Na’aseh venishma.”

Those words are what distinguish us and what have sustained us throughout the ages. We have been protected by the Torah and by our loyalty to it and to what it demands of us. The other nations that once filled the world have disappeared throughout history. We remain because of those two words that guide and define us.

On the Yom Tov of Kabbolas HaTorah, we once again stand at Har Sinai and proclaim, “Na’aseh venishma.” We receive the Torah anew and are reminded of our mission and purpose. Shavuos is not merely a commemoration of what our ancestors accepted long ago, but a renewal of our own commitment to live as people shaped and elevated by Torah, today and every day.

My uncle, Rav Avrohom Chaim Levin, rosh yeshiva of Yeshivas Telz, once recalled a difficult period in the yeshiva when an incident had deeply shaken the rosh yeshiva, Rav Elya Meir Bloch. The atmosphere in the bais medrash was tense as the talmidim gathered to hear the rosh yeshiva speak. They expected a fiery rebuke, a painful description of how low a person can fall. As they entered and took their seats for the shmuess, they feared what he would say.

But Rav Elya Meir spoke about something entirely different.

“We already know how low a person can sink,” he said. “Now let us speak about how high a person can rise.”

And with the classic mussar emphasis on gadlus ha’adam, he delivered a shmuess about possibility, about the greatness contained within every Jew, and the heights each person can attain.

The great mashgiach, Rav Yechezkel Levenstein, would say that while it is a serious failing for a person not to recognize his deficiencies, it is an even greater failing not to recognize his strengths and qualities. A person who ignores his weaknesses cannot improve himself, but a person who ignores his greatness cannot even begin the journey upward.

Perhaps this is one of the central messages of Shavuos as well.

The Torah was not given to malochim. It was given to human beings who struggle, fail, become discouraged, and sometimes lose clarity. Yet, Hashem looked at those very human beings and entrusted them with His Torah because of what they are capable of becoming.

The yeitzer hora wants a person to focus obsessively on his weaknesses and failures, convincing him that holiness and greatness belong only to others. But the yeitzer tov reminds us that the opposite is true.

The fire of Har Sinai burns within the heart of every Jew.

The fire of Torah possesses the power to illuminate the neshomah and burn away the tumah that seeks to envelop it. Even during periods of arofel and choshech, confusion and spiritual exhaustion, every Yid possesses the strength to continue moving forward, to walk through darkness with purpose, and to strive upward as a kadosh reaching toward Heaven.

So often in life, there is a temptation to surrender, to convince ourselves that the burdens are too heavy, the distractions are too powerful, and the challenges are too overwhelming. A person may feel that he has stumbled too many times to ever rise again.

But the nation that declared “Na’aseh venishma” is not a nation that gives up.

The very essence of those words was the willingness to continue forward despite uncertainty, despite difficulty, despite not fully understanding what lay ahead. At Har Sinai, Klal Yisroel demonstrated that it understood that greatness is achieved by accepting the challenge of growth.

Every Shavuos, as we once again accept the Torah, we are reminded not only of our obligations, but also of our greatness. We remember that we were created for more than mediocrity and distraction. We were created to rise, to horeveh in Torah, to grow, and to become a great nation of great people.

For those who carry the words “Na’aseh venishma” within their souls, no challenge is insurmountable and no height is beyond reach.

We speak about greatness, holiness, and climbing toward Heaven. We speak about the crowns that were placed upon our heads at Har Sinai, about walking through the arofel, about becoming anshei kodesh while living in a difficult physical world filled with challenges. But all of this can sound lofty and distant, as though true greatness belongs only to malochim and not to ordinary people like us.

The Torah teaches otherwise.

There was once a great commotion in the town of Sadigura. Rav Yisroel of Ruzhin had come to visit, and crowds gathered to catch a glimpse of the great tzaddik and perhaps receive a brocha. A young child heard the excitement and asked what it was about.

“A rebbe as holy as a malach has come to town,” they told him. “The heilige Ruzhiner is here.”

Curious and sincere, the child pushed his way through the crowd until he stood before the rebbe. He carefully walked around him, studying him from every angle.

The rebbe noticed and asked the boy what he was looking for. “I was told that the rebbe is a malach, and my cheder rebbi taught us that in Akdamus it says that malochim have six wings. I am looking for your wings.”

The rebbe looked down at the cherubic young boy and smiled. Pointing to the six sons accompanying him, he said, “These are my six wings.”

The Torah does not ask us to escape our humanity and become malochim. It asks us to elevate our humanity. True greatness is not found in withdrawing from life, but in sanctifying it. The wings that lift a Jew Heavenward are not hidden somewhere beyond this world. They are built here – through raising children, building families, learning Torah, refining our character, helping others, persevering through struggle, and remaining loyal to Hashem and His Torah.

Moshe Rabbeinu entered the arofel not to stop being human, but to demonstrate that a human being can ascend far beyond what he imagined possible. Klal Yisroel stood at Har Sinai and affirmed that ordinary people of flesh and blood could live lives infused with kedusha and eternal meaning.

And every year on Shavuos, we stand there once again, hearing the call to greatness and reminding ourselves that despite the darkness of the times, despite the distractions of life, our weaknesses, and our struggles, we are the people to whom Hashem spoke at Har Sinai, and we are the people to whom He gave the Torah. That upward path still exists.

We are not malochim. But we possess the wings that can carry us as high as we wish to go.

Let’s go.

Ashreichem Yisroel.

Gut Yom Tov.