It’s hard to ignore what we’re feeling these days.
From the streets of Paris to the campuses of New York, from government halls in London to protests that fill city squares around the world, the mask of civility has been torn away — and once again the Jewish people are being singled out, shouted down, and shamed for simply existing.
It’s no wonder that so many of us feel alone — surrounded by noise, yet starved for support.
And in the quiet of that pain, a haunting question surfaces: Has G-d abandoned us?
If we are truly the Chosen People, why does the world treat us like strangers? If G-d loves us, where is He when we feel most vulnerable?
To answer that, let’s travel back in time — nearly 1,000 years — to a story that continues to illuminate our darkest moments.
There once lived a rabbi whose very name was a message of hope: Rabbeinu Gershom Me’or HaGolah — Rabbi Gershom, the Light of the Exile. He served as chief rabbi of Mainz, Germany, living between the years 960 and 1040, and his legacy continues to shine with relevance today.
Just decades after his passing, in 1096, the First Crusade swept through Europe with unspeakable brutality, wiping out entire Jewish communities in the Rhineland. Cities like Mainz, Worms, and Speyer became blood-soaked testimonies to cruelty. The church, in a twisted attempt to rationalize its violence, declared that the suffering of the Jews was proof that G-d had abandoned His people. “You were once chosen,” they claimed. “But now G-d has moved on — to a more desirable bride.”
The abuse wasn’t just physical — it was theological. And yet, the Jewish people stood firm — not just in body, but in soul. Why? Because Rabbeinu Gershom’s legal revolution had changed everything.
Long before the Crusades, Rabbeinu Gershom enacted two transformative laws in Jewish life: a man could no longer divorce his wife without her consent and polygamy was banned entirely.
And here’s the brilliance: According to the Torah, rabbinic law is binding — on us and on G-d Himself.
So what did that mean? It meant that G-d could not have divorced His people — because we, the Jewish nation, never agreed to the separation. And He could not have taken another “bride” while still married to us. Divine commitment isn’t subject to public opinion or history’s mood swings. Once chosen — always chosen. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Rabbeinu Gershom didn’t just protect Jewish women — he protected all Jews from the most dangerous lie: that G-d had walked away. And that’s why he was called Me’or HaGolah — the Light of the Exile. Because in the shadows of persecution, he reminded us of an eternal covenant that can never be broken.
On the first Shabbos after Shavuos, we stood beneath the mountain and entered into an eternal marriage with G-d. He was the groom. We were the bride. The Torah was our ketubah. And Sinai was our chuppah.
We didn’t just receive a set of laws — we entered into a relationship. Not a fleeting romance, but a sacred bond, sealed in fire and faith. A covenant that never expires, never wilts, and never walks away.
Our people have always known: G-d doesn’t love us because we’re perfect — He loves us because we’re His. Even when we let go of Him, He never lets go of us.
Yes, G-d’s ways are mysterious. He is infinite, and we are not. There will always be moments — painful, confusing, even infuriating — when we ask: Why? Where are You? But even then, deep down, we know: Even when His presence is hidden, His love never leaves. His love is not seasonal — it’s eternal.
One month after the miraculous victory of the Six-Day War, when Israel was still reeling from the trauma of near-annihilation, the Lubavitcher Rebbe taught something unforgettable.
In Jewish law, a get — a bill of divorce — is only valid if the husband gives it entirely into the hands of his wife. If even one corner remains in his possession, the divorce is invalid. But the Rebbe explained: The entire world is in G-d’s possession. He re-creates it every single moment. There is no space that lies outside of His reach.
So even if He wanted to give us a get, He couldn’t. Because His love isn’t based on our record — it’s rooted in our relationship. His faith in us outlasts our faith in ourselves. He didn’t choose us for what we’d do — He chose us for who we are.
Faith isn’t a noun — it’s a verb. In Hebrew, emunah means exercise, but it also implies struggle.
Like Tevye, the beloved milkman in Fiddler on the Roof, we turn our eyes upward and say: “Sometimes I wonder, when it gets too quiet up there, if You’re thinking, ‘What kind of mischief can I play on My friend Tevye?’” He doesn’t question G-d’s presence — just His plan. And even after the hardest blows, Tevye still sighs and says: “Dear G-d, did You have to send me news like that, on today of all days?”
We’ve wandered deserts. Faced empires. Endured exile after exile. Not because we are weak — but because we carry something eternal.
The world may turn its back. But Hashem never has. And never will. Our isolation is not abandonment — it’s distinction. We are not forgotten — we are forever chosen.
And the same G-d who split the sea for us still walks beside us today — in every classroom where a child learns Torah, in every shul where a Jew lifts their voice, and in every soul that still dares to wear their Jewish identity with pride.
Rabbi Dovid Vigler is the spiritual leader at Chabad of Palm Beach Gardens and host of the Jewish Schmooze Radio Show. Email him at [email protected].
