How can simchah coexist with such an intense eis tzarah?

T  he Yom Tov season is upon us. Adar, the month of simchah, flows into Nissan, the month of geulah. These are days meant to be filled with anticipation and song: children returning home, tables beautifully set, kitchens alive with preparation, hearts widening in joy.

And yet the backdrop feels different this year. War in Eretz Yisrael. Daily alerts and global tremors. Headlines that weigh heavily on the soul, with consequences that seem to stretch far beyond the battlefield.

How are we meant to react? How do we celebrate Purim, move through Adar, and prepare for Pesach while missiles fall and pain fills the air? How can simchah coexist with such an intense eis tzarah?

I would like to share Rav Shimon Schwab’s powerful approach to navigating this profound dichotomy with clarity and balance.

A well-known Gemara (Megillah 10b) describes the scene in Heaven as Klal Yisrael crossed the Yam Suf, marking the culmination of Yetzias Mitzrayim. The angels wished to sing their own shirah to Hashem in celebration of the Jewish People’s miraculous salvation.

But Hashem stopped them: “My handiwork, the Egyptians, are drowning in the sea, and you are singing?”

And so the angels remained silent.

Yet Klal Yisrael sang. Our shirah was accepted, precious, divinely inspired, and eternal — so much so that we recite it in full every single day and frame our daily tefillah with its central pesukim.

Why the difference? Why were human beings permitted to sing when the angels were not?

Rav Shimon Schwab offered a profound explanation. This was a moment of extraordinary complexity, a moment of both salvation and tragedy. It required the ability to hold celebration and grief together.

Klal Yisrael could sing because we are capable of emotional depth and nuance. We could rejoice in our redemption while simultaneously remaining aware of the loss of life on the other side. We could give thanks without becoming callous, sing with gratitude while still recognizing that Hashem’s creations were perishing.

Angels, however, are not built for such complexity. Chazal (Bereishis Rabbah 50:2) teach that each angel has a single, exclusive mission. An angel is one-dimensional, unable to emotionally multitask. He cannot sing and cry simultaneously; if tragedy defines the moment, that is all he can express.

But human beings were created with the capacity to live in tension — to feel conflicting emotions honestly and simultaneously. That ability is not a flaw; it is one of our greatest spiritual strengths.

And that is our avodah now.

We feel the pain of our brothers and sisters in tzarah. We worry for them. We daven with a renewed passion that HaKadosh Baruch Hu save Klal Yisrael from our enemies.

Yet at the very same time, we experience the exquisite simchah of Purim, the expanding joy of Adar, and the hope of Nissan — the season of geulah.

Brain vs. Heart

How do we achieve a state in which we can control our feelings? How do we gain the capacity to simultaneously carry deep pain for Klal Yisrael in one chamber of the heart while experiencing full and unrestrained joy in another? To answer that, we need to understand something about human nature.

Humans operate with two distinct forces: the koach halev and the koach hamoach — the heart and the mind. The heart feels deeply and reacts quickly. It aches and trembles, and can become overwhelmed in times of crisis. When the lev encounters unanswerable questions — “Ribbono shel Olam, how can this be?” — it becomes unsettled, seeking resolution. Without resolution, it grows heavy, even paralyzed.

The moach functions differently. The mind can live with unanswered questions, as anyone who learns Gemara knows. One can work through a sugya and still be left with a kashe. The Gemara itself sometimes concludes: “Kushya — it is indeed difficult.” Yet the learning stands; the question does not break you. Sometimes, it even deepens you, because a serious mind understands that not every question requires an immediate solution, and that realization does not produce despair, but rather steadiness.

That distinction becomes critical in times of war and chaos. A striking Midrash in the introduction to Mishlei records a debate between Dovid Hamelech and Shlomo Hamelech: Which is greater, the moach or the lev?

Dovid argues that the moach is greater, while Shlomo champions the lev.

At first glance, this seems backward. Dovid, whose Tehillim give voice to the deepest emotions of Klal Yisrael, champions the intellect. Shlomo, the wisest of all men, elevates the heart.

The answer lies in their respective realities.

Shlomo reigned in an era of peace and prosperity. In tranquil times, the heart can and should take the lead, allowing joy to expand and emotion to flourish. A vibrant lev helps a nation thrive.

Dovid lived a life of war, leading Klal Yisrael through constant battle. He teaches that in times of crisis, the moach must lead. When there is chaos, clarity must prevail, and when there is fear, discipline must anchor us.

Today, we are living in Dovid’s reality. The soldiers on the front lines of the current war certainly feel, but they do not act from raw emotion. They act with training, focus, strategy, mission, and seichel. If they are fighting on the physical front lines, we are fighting on the spiritual ones, and we too must act with focus, strategy, mission, and seichel.

In times of war, the heart may feel too heavy to daven well, too burdened to learn with clarity, and too overwhelmed to perform mitzvos with enthusiasm. But the moach must take over, declaring: “This is my avodah now. This is my mission.” With that resolve, we respond not with emotional paralysis but with concrete, disciplined action. Our seichel must govern our response.

A more focused Shemoneh Esreh. A kapitel Tehillim said slowly and deliberately. A small but consistent kabbalah in shemiras halashon. An added measure of patience at home. A few extra minutes of Torah learned with intensity. Not reactive emotion, but directed avodah. Seichel.

And when our moach leads the way and dictates how our lev should feel, we can successfully navigate the dichotomy of the Yom Tov season in a time of war. We do not deny the pain, but we allow the moach to guide the lev in simultaneously experiencing pain and joy.

When we learn to master the uniquely human art of balance, allowing our seichel to guide us, we transform turmoil into growth. We respond not with despair but with purposeful avodah.

In doing so, we can utilize this eis tzarah to rise, to refine ourselves, and to draw closer to Hashem. Through that elevation, may we merit to enter this zeman of geulah by earning the ultimate Geulah—bimheirah b’yameinu, Amen.

Rabbi Aryeh Kerzner is the rav of Agudas Yisrael of Montreal and a noted posek and popular speaker. Many of his shiurim and speeches are available online. He is the author of the sefer Halachah at Home, published by ArtScroll/Mesorah.  

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1102)