By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

There is a growing unease over the direction of the Republican Party when President Trump leaves the political stage. For decades, support for Israel was one of the few issues that transcended partisan politics. While that bipartisan consensus has steadily eroded, particularly as anti-Israel sentiment has become increasingly mainstream on the left, Republicans have largely remained steadfast allies of Israel. President Donald Trump, more than perhaps any American president before him, has demonstrated an unwavering commitment to Israel’s security and legitimacy.

But many are beginning to ask what comes next.

Vice President JD Vance’s recent remarks have unsettled many in the Jewish community. In discussing his efforts to negotiate with Iran, Vance suggested that unnamed figures within the Israeli government were engaged in a secret, well-funded campaign to manipulate American policy. His comments echoed one of history’s oldest antisemitic accusations, namely that Jews secretly wield hidden influence over governments and push nations into wars for their own benefit. Such conspiracy theories have fueled hatred and persecution for centuries.

Antisemitism rarely begins with open expressions of hatred or explicit calls for violence. More often, it starts with insinuations about secret power, hidden agendas, and divided loyalties. That is why many Jews found the vice president’s comments so disturbing. It is not simply what he said, but what such rhetoric legitimizes when it comes from one of the most powerful elected officials in the world.

Last week, a majority of Democratic members of Congress voted to cut off aid to Israel. Candidates who traffic in anti-Israel rhetoric are moving ever closer to seats in Congress and the Senate. In New York City, the nation’s largest Jewish population is governed by a mayor who routinely vilifies Israel and has renewed his public threat to arrest Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu should he attend the United Nations General Assembly in September. Whether such a threat could ever be carried out is almost beside the point. The fact that it can be uttered, debated, and amplified in the mainstream without widespread outrage reflects how dramatically the public conversation has shifted and how much traction these views are gaining.

The same trend is evident overseas. Britain’s new government has signaled a far more confrontational approach toward Israel. Belgium has joined a growing list of European countries implementing punitive economic measures against Jewish communities in Yehudah, Shomron, and the Golan. Across Europe, support for Israel is becoming increasingly conditional, while hostility toward Israel is becoming increasingly respectable, and attacks on Jews and Jewish targets are becoming increasingly commonplace.

We have sadly grown accustomed to reports of Jews being assaulted in New York, Toronto, London, Paris, and other major cities. This week came word of Jews being attacked in Mongolia, a country with almost no Jewish population. It was a chilling reminder that antisemitism has never depended on familiarity with Jews. It thrives on myths, conspiracy theories, and propaganda, requiring little contact with its targets. The hatred has become global.

Viewed individually, each of these developments might be dismissed as an isolated incident. Taken together, they paint a sobering picture. The atmosphere has changed. Ideas that once lived on the political fringes are entering the mainstream. Hostility toward Israel is no longer confined to radical activists. Suspicion of Jews and Israel is increasingly expressed openly, confidently, and without apology.

Throughout our long history, the Jewish people have learned that political fortunes rise and fall. Friends become enemies. Governments change. Alliances shift. We appreciate and pray for leaders who stand with us and defend truth and justice. But our ultimate security has never rested in Washington, London, Brussels, or any other capital.

As the world around us grows increasingly uncertain, the lesson of these days becomes ever more relevant. Our task is not to panic, but to strengthen our emunah, deepen our commitment to Torah and mitzvos, and remember the promise that has sustained us through every exile. Nations may change, public opinion may shift, and yesterday’s allies may become tomorrow’s enemies, but the Ribbono Shel Olam remains the Shomer Yisroel, and that never changes.

How quickly things change. Last week it was Shabbos Chazon, the saddest Shabbos of the year, surrounded by mourning and the signs of aveilus. On Tisha B’Av, we sit on the floor as we read Eicha, recite Kinnos, mourn the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh, and reflect upon the suffering our people have endured throughout the various goluyos. We wonder when the sadness will end.

And then Tisha B’Av concludes. The mourning ends. And Shabbos Nachamu arrives. The atmosphere changes. The sadness gives way to hope. We play music again and wear clean clothes. There is a palpable feeling of relief.

But why? Has anything really changed? The Bais Hamikdosh has not been rebuilt. The Har Habayis remains off limits. The shu’olim – foxes – still roam where the Shechinah once rested, and the world has become no friendlier toward us. Why, then, are we suddenly comforted? What comfort do we have?

The answer lies in understanding the meaning of the word nechomah.

On Shabbos Nachamu, we begin reciting a series of seven haftaros from Yeshayahu, the novi of consolation, that accompany us from Tisha B’Av until Rosh Hashanah. This Shabbos derives its name from its haftarah, which opens with the famous words, “Nachamu, nachamu ami  –  Be comforted, be comforted, My people.”

The novi offers us double comfort, and we wonder about the repetition.

Following the sin of Adam Harishon, the posuk states, “Vayinochem Hashem” (Bereishis 6:6). Rashi explains that the word nechomah means more than consolation. It also means reconsidering, stepping back, and looking at a situation from a different perspective. Following what Adam had done, Hashem was reconsidering the creation of man.

But the word nechomah also means comfort. We can explain that these two definitions really go together because comfort comes in two stages. First there is consolation, the soothing reassurance that the pain will not last forever. Then comes the second, deeper form of nechomah, when the mourner steps back from the immediate darkness surrounding him and begins to see the larger picture. In truth, nothing has changed, but the person receives comfort because everything begins to look different as his perspective changes.

We can now understand why the novi says to us, “Nachamu, nachamu.” Hashem is offering us both forms of consolation, both definitions of nechomah.

We find this dual message of nechomah at the end of Maseches Makkos. Chazal recount that Rabbon Gamliel, Rabi Elazar ben Azaryah, Rabi Yehoshua, and Rabi Akiva were once standing overlooking the Har Habayis when they saw a fox emerging from the site of the Kodesh Hakodoshim. The others cried. Rabi Akiva smiled.

When Rabi Akiva explained that the fulfillment of the prophecy of destruction guaranteed the fulfillment of the prophecy of redemption, they said to him, “Akiva, nichamtonu. Akiva, nichamtonu.”

Just as Yeshayahu Hanovi did, they repeated the words. Rabi Akiva had not changed reality. He changed the way they perceived it. That is the essence of nechomah.

Unfortunately, we arrive at Shabbos Nachamu carrying burdens that feel painfully familiar.

The nations of the world continue to align themselves against us. As Israel fights enemies sworn to its destruction, much of the civilized world condemns the victim while excusing the aggressor. Jews everywhere are targeted and vilified.

The slogans change. The hatred never does.

Today’s antisemitism disguises itself as anti-Zionism or humanitarian concern. Yesterday it accused Jews of poisoning wells, spreading plagues, and consuming gentile blood. Today it speaks the language of international law, human rights, and political campaigns.

The vocabulary has evolved, not the hatred. It is still the same.

It is the ancient animosity of Yishmoel toward Yitzchok, of Eisov toward Yaakov, clothed in the fashionable language of each generation.

Europe, whose soil is saturated with Jewish blood, once again tolerates public displays of antisemitism that many believed had disappeared forever. Jews wonder if they have a future there. University campuses in America have become increasingly hostile to openly Jewish students. Public figures who once concealed their prejudice now express it proudly and are praised for it. Democrats who support Israel put their careers in jeopardy, and the vice president regularly insults Israel and speaks against it. When people gather to discuss current events, they wonder how much longer American Jews will continue to enjoy the freedom with which we have been blessed.

History rarely repeats itself in precisely the same form. It simply finds new disguises.

For us, however, none of this is surprising. Chazal taught us long ago, “Sinah yordah la’olam,” hatred descended to the world when Klal Yisroel stood at Har Sinai and accepted the Torah. Our enemies may invent new explanations for their hostility, but the source remains unchanged. We are hated because we carry Hashem’s Torah and bear His Name.

That realization does not lessen the pain, but it changes the perspective, and that is the beginning of nechomah.

As we conclude the mourning of the Three Weeks and Nine Days, we wonder how much longer the golus will continue and when it will finally end. America is battling Iran, and we fear the war will expand to Eretz Yisroel. We wonder what we can do to bring peace.

When history seems to repeat itself generation after generation, we do not find the answers to our questions in newspaper headlines, political analysis, or in the shallow conversations that often substitute for serious thought.

A young man once boarded a bus to Bayit Vegan and noticed Rav Moshe Shapiro sitting quietly nearby. Gathering his courage, he approached him and asked, “How are we supposed to understand what happened during the Holocaust?”

Rav Moshe looked at him warmly.

“Shalom,” he replied.

He did not say anything else. He did not address the question or even acknowledge it.

A talmid witnessed the interaction, and when Rav Moshe got off the bus, he followed him and asked why the well-known rosh yeshiva and baal machshovah had ignored such an important question. Rav Moshe explained, “The young man knows where I live. He knows how long this bus ride is. If he thinks that the answer to that question can be given in the few minutes before I reach my stop, then he isn’t really looking for an answer. He’s just looking to make conversation. I don’t have time for pointless conversations.”

Some questions are simply too profound to be answered with slogans. Life demands depth and understanding. To understand Jewish history requires Torah. It requires us to look beyond the surface and recognize the Hand guiding events that often appear random.

That is what Parshas Va’eschanon teaches us.

Just as the novi gives us nechomah, Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us how to attain it.

Moshe Rabbeinu takes Klal Yisroel by the hand and shows us what Rabi Akiva would understand centuries later.

The answer to Jewish history is found in the Torah.

Parshas Va’eschanon is much more than a review of events that took place long ago. It is a blueprint for every generation that would one day struggle to understand exile, persecution, and redemption.

Moshe begins with his own heartfelt tefillah. “Hashem Elokim, Atah hachilosah…” He recounts how he pleaded with Hashem to allow him to enter Eretz Yisroel and then accepted Hashem’s decree barring him from the Holy Land with complete faith.

Before teaching Klal Yisroel how to live, Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us how to trust. He reminds us that no matter how much remains hidden from our understanding, there is One Who sees the entire picture.

Rashi explains Moshe’s declaration, “Asher mi Keil bashomayim u’va’aretz asher yaaseh k’maasecha u’gevorosecha…,” by contrasting Hashem with earthly rulers. A king of flesh and blood may wish to show compassion, but he is constrained by ministers, advisors, and political realities. Hashem answers to no one. His mercy is absolute, unrestricted, and perfect.

Through those words and that idea, we begin to find nechomah as we recognize that our lives are not governed by chance or by the whims of world leaders, but rest securely in the Hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Moshe then reminds us where life is found. He says, “V’atem hadeveikim baHashem Elokeichem chaim kulchem hayom.” Those who remain attached and devoted to Hashem are truly alive.

Life is not merely breathing, eating, sleeping, or playing ball. Life is attachment to Hashem. Life is found in a heartfelt Shemoneh Esrei, another posuk, another blatt Gemara, another act of chesed, another mitzvah performed with sincerity.

The world defines life by comfort, wealth, and security. The Torah defines life by clinging to Hashem.

Moshe continues: “Mi goy gadol asher lo Elokim kerovim eilov…”

What other nation possesses such a gift? What other people can call out to the Creator of the universe and know that He hears every sincere cry? And what other nation has experienced what ours has?

Who else was taken from the midst of another people through miracles, signs, wonders, and open displays of Divine providence?

Who else has survived exile after exile, persecution after persecution, only to emerge again and again proclaiming the same eternal truths?

History has no parallel. Neither does Klal Yisroel.

Moshe then brings us to the foundation upon which everything else rests: the Aseres Hadibros, the charter of the Jewish people that defines who we are, how we live, and why we endure.

Immediately afterward, we proclaim the words that have accompanied us through every generation: “Shema Yisroel Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.”

Those words put us to bed each night and accompany us every morning.

They have echoed from the stirring cries of Yom Kippur to the whispered bedtime Krias Shema, and to the final declarations of martyrs ascending al kiddush Hashem.

Empires have risen and fallen. Kings have disappeared. Cultures and civilizations have vanished. But those words have never ceased to be spoken.

That, too, is nechomah.

Moshe’s message reaches its practical conclusion a few pesukim later.

“V’osisa hayoshor vehatov.”

If we seek Hashem’s protection, we must strive to become the people He asks us to be.

Not merely believers, not merely observers, but honest, compassionate, and upright Jews. When we are a nation faithful in both belief and conduct, we can ask Hashem to fight our battles.

When we fight our yeitzer hora, He fights our enemies. When we build homes of integrity, businesses of honesty, communities of kindness, and lives that reflect His Torah, the bris remains intact, along with Hashem’s promises.

Moshe assures us that Hashem will bring His people into the land promised to the avos, filling their homes with brachos and goodness.

Those promises were never abandoned. They were only delayed until we prove worthy of receiving them.

Perhaps that is the deepest meaning of Shabbos Nachamu.

Nothing changed this week. The stones of the Kosel still stand as lonely testaments to what once was and what we have lost. The Har Habayis still waits for us to return. Our enemies have not disappeared. The world’s attitudes have not improved.

So what is the nechomah?

The nechomah is that everything has changed because we have changed. Our outlook has changed.

The tears of Tisha B’Av were never meant to leave us in despair. They were meant to restore our vision. The mourning stripped away our illusions and reminded us who we are. When we perceive the churban and the losses, when we see the foxes strutting about, confident and content, that is when we know that resurrection is coming. When we see dusk, we know that there will be dawn. When the sun goes down, we know it will also rise.

Shabbos Chazon marks where we were. Shabbos Nachamu points to where we are going.

The Bluzhever Rebbe experienced unimaginable tragedy during the Holocaust and then came as a refugee to America, where he witnessed and helped lead the rebirth of Yiddishkeit. He understood this better than most.

A young bochur once stood in line after lighting Chanukah licht to receive the rebbe’s brocha. Hoping to preserve the moment, he quietly asked a friend to photograph him standing beside the rebbe.

The rebbe noticed the boy handing his friend the camera to capture the moment.

When the young man approached for a brocha, the rebbe warmly took his hand and smiled.

“Bochur’l,” he said, “you probably want a picture because I represent a world that has disappeared.”

The boy nodded shyly.

“But never forget,” the rebbe said as he held the young man’s hand, “that the future of that world that is no more is standing inside of you.”

The man who had survived destruction and came to embody the generation and world that had been lost was telling a young member of the next generation that the past itself guaranteed the future – a future of Torah, a future of Yiddishkeit, a future of Yidden.

That is why we remember. That is why we spent three weeks remembering and mourning. Not because we live in the past, and not because we are held hostage by the past, but because we believe in tomorrow, because we want to build a better tomorrow.

We rejoice on Shabbos Nachamu not because the golus has ended, but because we know that it will.

Over the past nine days and three weeks, we returned to our origins. We remembered our losses. We confronted our failures. We mourned the Bais Hamikdosh, the harugei Beitar, Rabi Akiva and the other Tannaim, the victims of Tach V’Tat, of York, England, of the Crusades, and of the Holocaust.

Now we can lift our eyes. Now we hear the words of the novi once again as he calls out to us through the ages and proclaims, “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

Be comforted. Step back. See beyond the ruins. Look beyond the darkness. Recognize that the same Hashem Who accompanied us through every golus walks beside us today.

Our path to geulah begins long before Moshiach arrives. It begins the moment a Jew learns to see history through the eyes of Torah.

That is the gift of nechomah.

That is the message of Shabbos Nachamu.

And that is why, even before the Bais Hamikdosh is rebuilt, we are able to proclaim again and again: “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

We know it is on the way. It is almost here.

May we merit the day when those words are no longer a promise of consolation, but the joyous proclamation of redemption itself, bemeheirah beyomeinu. Amein.