There is a secret weapon that a Jew can marshal at all times. It is called “kivui,” hope in Hashem

T

hroughout the present eis tzarah, we have all been fixated on the fate of the hostages in Gaza. In some sense, our hearts and minds are there with them in the grim Hamas tunnels. Clearly, Hashem is speaking to us, insisting that we think about their predicament and internalize it, and make it part of our own avodah.

Let’s consider their dire straits — stripped of all their possessions, personal autonomy, and human connection. All they are left with is emunah alone, and therein lies their only path forward. As former hostage Agam Berger famously declared to the world when she was released, “B’derech emunah bacharti. I chose the path of faith, and that is what set me free.”

Her statement is particularly poignant when we consider that she did not identify as strictly dati at the time, and yet still she found salvation through emunah. What a powerful affirmation of the truth articulated by the Ramchal long ago — that there is a secret weapon that a Jew can marshal at all times. It is called “kivui,” hope in Hashem, and he asserts that by dint of this avodah, any Jew can achieve geulah, regardless of his or her level of shemiras mitzvos.

Ramchal explains that the word kivui is etymologically connected to the word kav, a “line,” because hope opens a line straight up to Hashem, even from the pit of a low spiritual madreigah. He promises that any of us can entreat Hashem from this perspective — wherever we find ourselves — and we will see salvation. It is through this power alone that we will merit the final redemption. As the pasuk says, “For your salvation I hoped [kivisi], Hashem.”

This teaching of Ramchal becomes even more powerful when we consider the context of that pasuk. It appears in Yaakov’s brachah to Dan when he foresees the fate of Dan’s descendant, Shimshon, who would be captured by the Pelishtim. Shimshon was in the abyss, not only physically, but spiritually as well.

Shimshon was a fallen hero with his otherworldly strengths snuffed out, and he had only himself to blame. He had fallen to temptation, violated his code of nezirus — indeed, he was a shell of his former self. But from that pit of despair, he turned his heart heavenward in a plea to be granted strength to bring deliverance to his people one more time. And from his place of personal and moral failure, his entreaty was granted.

Historical Parallels

Shimshon, then, is a model for us in all of our skirmishes with despair in this galus acharonah. But let’s consider how he speaks to our own specific situation. While we must be aware that all attempts to correlate a passage in Torah with current events are somewhat speculative, sometimes the connection is so apropos that we can’t help but find it compelling.

Where was Shimshon held captive? In the city of Azah (or Gaza, as it is known today). And what happened to him? His body was defiled by the enemy, and he was dragged before a jeering crowd. Is this not eerily reminiscent of our hostages?

And who were his captors? Pelishtim — “Philistines,” from which the term Palestinian originates. While, of course, there is no biological connection between the Pelishtim of old and the enemy with whom we are currently struggling, the scriptural correlation is nonetheless striking.

Of course, the Palestinians speciously identify themselves with an ancient people to claim historical legitimacy in the land. But in using that term, which has unfortunately been coopted by the present foe, the Toras Chayim is certainly speaking to us.

In a virtual sense, Shimshon Hagibor was the first Hamas hostage. And now, as then, the call of the hour lies in the secret of kivui, as elucidated by the Ramchal. From the dreariest Hamas dungeons, the captives and the nation at large are strung all the way to their Father in Heaven along the cord of hope.

To further appreciate where this power comes from, we need to dive deeper into the context of the above citation, “For your salvation I hoped [kivisi], Hashem.” Yaakov foresaw Shimshon in his brachah to Shimshon’s ancestor Dan. This suggests that Shimshon’s deep-seated impulse to turn to Hashem from the depths of despair emanated from his forebears in Shevet Dan.

Tribe of Resilience

Consider Dan’s birth, which determined his name and the spiritual essence he carried. Rochel Imeinu, in an act of desperation, gave her handmaid Bilhah to Yaakov so that at least she would have a surrogate child. She named him Dan, meaning judgment. Chazal explain that she was saying, “Hashem, You have judged me harshly, but now You are judging me favorably.”

The name lays bare just how pitiable her situation was. She had suffered from infertility, and even now she only had a son in a symbolic sense — but a precious child he was, nonetheless. Rachel embraced the Divine gift granted to her from the crucible of Divine judgment. This trait of resilience amid despair would characterize Dan and his family forevermore.

Let’s connect the dots further. While the other Shevatim fathered large families, Dan had only one son, named Chushim. When we read it with a sensitive ear, this contrast and social stigma can be discerned from the Torah’s description of the Shevatim’s descent down to Mitzrayim. Along with the statements, “And the sons of Reuven were… and the sons of Shimon were…” it says, “and the sons of Dan were Chushim.”

Commentaries note the grammatical mismatch and suggest that the Torah is treating the narratives of all the sons uniformly. But on a deeper level, there is more to it than that. The Torah speaks of the “sons of Dan” and then lists his only son to highlight the imbalance between Dan’s and his brothers’ families.

But the tribe of Dan rose above this limitation. In only a few generations, Chushim’s progeny become the second-largest Shevet in the census of Bamidbar. Not only for his family size, but for overcoming his handicap — he was famously deaf — Chushim is a model for triumph over adversity. Indeed, it was he who fought off Eisav’s onslaught at the time of Yaakov’s burial.

Was it human courage on display, or faith in Hashem? The answer is, of course, both. As Rav Tzadok asserts, the mark of true belief in Hashem is belief in oneself and the power to rise above hardships. We can see this now in our day, just as Shevet Dan experienced it.

Let’s note a final characteristic of Dan and how it so perfectly wraps up the intergenerational pattern we have traced. The Torah tells us that Dan was positioned at the back of the camp as it traversed the Midbar. It fell to them to retrieve any lost objects. The mekubalim explain that they not only returned lost items, but lost souls — those individuals who felt left behind and disenfranchised and were straggling behind the rest.

In light of everything we have learned, Dan’s behavior is no coincidence. They, who never lose hope in Hashem, in themselves, or in their fellow Jew, teach us by example how to fight back from the vulnerable position at the rear. All the hope that Dan embodies comes to the fore in the final “to be or not to be” dramatic moment of his progeny Shimshon, the first Hamas hostage.

Our Call to Arms

In line with Ramchal’s teaching, kivui has always been our focus, our mission, our raison d’être in the galus acharonah. But in the present eis tzarah, with its uncanny déjà vu of Shimshon, its mandate could not be clearer. What has till now been a Divine whisper has become a virtual roar. We must tether ourselves to the cord of hope that holds the promise of geulah in all situations.

Sometimes we see this promise actualized, as in the story of Agam Berger, who declared, “B’derech emunah bacharti.” And when we don’t see it yet, we know that there must be something good, something loving and divine, even when the moment defies all reason.

Think of Chananel Gez, whose wife was murdered by terrorists when they were on their way to the hospital to give birth to their child. The doctors were unable to save her. They had to deliver the baby from her lifeless body. (Tragically, the baby subsequently passed away.)

Yet he told his friends and relatives, “Hashem is one... I accept it with love. Call me crazy. Aren’t we all?”

In reality, he is not crazy at all, but fully sober and cognizant of the ultimate truth that transcends the grim circumstances and limitations of human understanding. Like Chananel, may we all arm ourselves with the fortitude of Shimshon — the power of kivui, the power of hope in Hashem — that allows us to stare down whatever travails are thrown our way.

Rabbi Yonah Sklare is a rosh kollel in Baltimore and a noted lecturer and author.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1065)