“Now, did you read the news today?
They say the danger has gone away.
But I can see the fire’s still alight,
They’re burning into the night.
There’s too many men, too many people,
Making too many problems.
And there’s not much love to go around.
Can’t you see this is the land of confusion?”
(Genesis, “Land of Confusion”)
Recently, I went to see the movie October 8 (https://www.october8film.com/) with my daughter. Sitting there, watching scenes of horror and resilience unfold, I realized that the greatest revelation was not new information, but the sharpness of what has been exposed. As Sheryl Sandberg noted near the end of the film, there has been a certain blessing in these events — a peeling back of the facade, revealing the disturbing underbelly of Western society, and the depth and breadth of antisemitism that we can no longer deny.
Several days later, I had a conversation with a woman who had also seen the film. She shared that, in her view, the past year and a half had been difficult, but things seemed to have calmed. In her mind, the worst had passed. I didn’t say much at the time, but her words stayed with me. They captured something deeper: the disorienting nature of living through history in real time, when the boundary between danger and calm feels almost impossible to discern.
Because the truth is, confusion still defines so much of our experience.
Some walk away feeling that the danger has passed, that the worst is over. Others sense that history, once again, is not linear. It moves with a terrifying unpredictability, forcing us to navigate in the dark.
Confusion, however, is not new. It is part of our story.
It wasn’t long ago that we read Megillat Esther. We relive the drama each year — the plots and counterplots, the hidden hand of Hashem orchestrating salvation. But we often forget: from the time the story began until its resolution, nine full years had passed. Nine years is a blink in Jewish history, but it is a lifetime when you are living through it without clarity. Did the Jews of Shushan recognize the unfolding plan as they endured one decree after another? Likely not. Confusion clouded every step.
We see this same dynamic in the story of the Meraglim. Although the Torah initially lists the spies in orderly fashion, the sequence quickly unravels. Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky explains that this disorganization reflects the spiritual disarray of the people themselves. Their sending of spies — an error of faith — was born from behala, a frantic, confused state that upended normal decision-making. It was not just a logistical mistake. It was a symptom of a people unsure of their destiny.
In many ways, the story of the Meraglim has remained with us. It became a paradigm for Galut itself — a complicated and often confused relationship between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel, particularly for those living outside it, unsure when and how to return. The behala of that moment continues to reverberate through history, and it defines much of the uncertainty we still experience today.
The feeling of waiting for help amid chaos — and wondering if it will ever come — was captured powerfully in Genesis’ Land of Confusion, with its plaintive question: “Superman, where are you now?” We, too, find ourselves asking a similar question, wondering about the arrival of redemption and the coming of Mashiach.
But our tradition has never encouraged waiting passively — not even when redemption itself seems within reach. As Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai taught in Avot D’Rabbi Natan (chapter 31):
“If you have a sapling in your hand and they tell you that Mashiach has come, plant the sapling first, and only afterward go out to greet him.”
Even when the announcement comes, we stay practical, grounded, and focused on building.
This perspective demands something of us.
It demands that we look honestly at our own situation — the comforts, the risks, the shifting winds — and ask hard questions. Where are we supposed to be? What should we be preparing for?
A year ago, I raised some of these questions in an article titled https://larryrothwachs.com/2024/05/30/if-not-now-then-when/. Since then, the urgency has only grown.
Conversations about Aliyah, once peripheral in many communities, are becoming central. This past Shabbos, I met someone in my shul who graduated from Yeshiva University in 2003. He remarked that during his time there, the topic of Aliyah was rarely, if ever, discussed. Fast forward twenty years, and it is impossible to ignore. Even before October 7, 2023, the conversation had begun to change. Since then, it has accelerated dramatically.
The truth is, the confusion we feel today is, paradoxically, a kind of mercy.
Because if things were “clear” — if the signs became so obvious that no one could deny them — it would likely mean that the threat had become immediate, the danger overwhelming. That is not the clarity we seek.
And so we live in this land of confusion, praying, planning, and preparing. Watching the skies. Planting, building, and finishing what we start — because we are called to keep building even when the signs seem clear, even when the hope of redemption feels within reach.
As Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai taught, even if someone comes and announces that Mashiach has arrived, we plant the sapling first and only then go out to greet him.
Faith does not mean waiting for absolute clarity.
Faith means acting responsibly when the signs are already in front of us — before events force our hand.
There is no promise that the future will be easier to read than the present.
There is no guarantee that the warning signs will become sharper than they already are.
Confusion is part of the exile itself — but so is the quiet call to prepare, to move forward thoughtfully, to plan for a future where we belong not only spiritually, but physically.
Because in a confusing world, the clearest sign of faith is not knowing all the answers, but moving forward anyway.
“I won’t be coming home tonight
My generation will put it right
We’re not just making promises
That we know we’ll never keep”
(Genesis, “Land of Confusion”)
To Whom It May Concern 