The splitting of the sea, the downfall of Egypt, and the birth of Jewish song, the Torah portion of B’shalach read this week, is action packed. But beneath the drama lies a quieter, enduring lesson—the power of words and the power of faith, and how deeply intertwined the two truly are.
I was reminded of this recently in a very ordinary setting. I had breakfast with a friend who shared something subtle but important. Something I had once said—a tongue-in-cheek comment about myself, entirely non-malicious and not hurtful to anyone (but me) —was overheard by someone else and taken at face value, rather than in the lighthearted way it was intended. Without tone or context, even self-directed words can be misunderstood. It was a helpful reminder of how delicate words are. Even when there is no ill intent, and even when the comment is about ourselves, words can land very differently than we imagine. How careful we must be—not only with what we say, but with how it may be heard. That sensitivity to words takes on far deeper meaning in moments of life and loss. A number of years ago, Ahuva’s uncle passed away suddenly—just one week before his daughter’s wedding. The family experienced something almost unimaginable: they went straight from sitting shiva to celebrating the wedding. This week, in the study of the Daily Rambam (Maimonidies), we learned a striking halachah/law.The Rambam teaches that Moses instituted two parallel seven-day cycles in Jewish life: seven days of mourning for loss, and seven days of rejoicing—Sheva Brachot—after a wedding. The Rebbe highlighted the profound message embedded in this structure: the Torah gives full space to grief—but it insists that grief is not the final word. Mourning gives way to joy. Sometimes that transition takes time. And sometimes, life demands that it be immediate—rising straight from shiva into marriage. During the shiva, I shared this thought with the bride. Years later, she reminded me of that moment. She told me that those words—shared quietly, without fanfare—gave her the strength to do the impossible: to rise from the raw pain of losing her father and walk forward into her wedding. What felt like a simple insight in the moment became enduring strength. Another reminder of how words—sometimes spoken almost in passing—can leave an indelible imprint. That same powerful juxtaposition of grief and faith was on display this week with the discovery of Ron Gvili, the last remaining hostage. In an extraordinarily moving scene, the soldiers who found him did not stand in silence. They joined hands in a circle and sang Ani Maamin—“I believe with complete faith in the coming of Mashiach.” It was not denial of pain. It was defiance of despair. Those words gave voice to the Jewish experience of exile itself: Jews hated, slaughtered, kidnapped—and yet holding fast to the belief that this reality will end. That Mashiach will come. That the world will know peace—peace within itself, peace with the Jewish people, and peace in our homeland, the Land of Israel. This brings us to the heart of Parshat B’shalach. When the sea splits, the Torah says, “Az yashir Moshe”—Then Moshe will sing. Strikingly, the verse is written in the future tense. Our sages explain that this alludes to Techiyat HaMeitim, the resurrection of the dead. The song at the sea was not only gratitude for past salvation—it was a declaration of future redemption. Faith is not passive. Faith has a voice. This message resonates even more deeply this week as we also commemorated Yud Shvat—the day marking the passing of the Previous Rebbe and the moment when the Rebbe formally assumed leadership. In his first maamar/Chassidic Discourse, Basi L’Gani, the Rebbe articulated the mission of our generation: to restore the world to what it once was—G-d’s garden. Not to escape the world, but to transform it. To bring the Divine Presence back into the very places from which it had been driven away through human failure. A garden is not restored through grand gestures alone. It is cultivated patiently—through careful speech, thoughtful actions, and faith expressed again and again. A careless word can damage that garden. A word of encouragement, perspective, or belief can restore it. Parshat B’shalach teaches us that words are never neutral. They either advance the world toward being G-d’s garden—or delay its restoration. A comment spoken lightly—even about ourselves—can echo beyond its moment. A word shared at the right time can carry someone from grief to joy. And a song of faith, sung at the edge of loss, can split seas that still lie ahead. May we choose our words with care, speak faith even when it feels fragile, and take our part in restoring the world to what it was always meant to be—a place of harmony, holiness, and peace. And may we soon merit the day when Az yashir becomes present tense once again, with the coming of Mashiach, speedily in our days. Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom
Rabbi Ruvi New