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Dear Yeshiva Family,
Questions on Emunah and Bitachon
We often speak about emunah and bitachon — trusting in Hashem and relying on Him in every circumstance. But an honest question arises: what does that trust mean when life brings pain, confusion, or moments that feel harsh and unfair? How can we learn to put our trust in Hashem when things seem not to work out sometimes?
A related question follows. Chazal teach us that we must accept whatever happens with simchah. Just as we make a brachah on the good, we are required to make a brachah on the bad — and the Gemara in Berachos says we must do so besimchah, with joy. But what if we can't? What if, deep down, we're not happy about it — at least not yet? Does that mean our emunah is deficient? Is that a failure of faith, or is it a separate middah — an area of growth in how we process hardship, not in how we believe?
These are the two questions I'd like to explore.
The Halachic Implications
This question is not merely theoretical or academic. It has practical halachic consequences.
Halachah teaches that someone who denies one of the Yud-Gimmel Ikkarei Emunah — the Thirteen Principles of Faith — is considered an apikorus, one who rejects the core of Torah belief. Such a person, according to many authorities, cannot be counted as part of a minyan.
This raises a critical question: if a person does not believe that everything Hashem does is ultimately for the good, is he, in fact, denying one of those principles? If so, his disbelief would not simply reflect a lapse in trust — it would constitute a denial of a fundamental tenet of Judaism.
But if the obligation to accept hardship b'simchah — with joy — is instead rooted in the mitzvah of v'ahavta es Hashem Elokecha, to love Hashem even in times of pain, then failing to reach that level of joy would not make a person a kofer b'ikar; it would mean he is struggling to fulfill a difficult mitzvah. In that case, he remains fully within the fold, even if his emunah is being tested.
Is It One of the Thirteen Principles?
To answer this question, it seems clear that the belief that everything Hashem does is for the good is not explicitly listed among the Yud-Gimmel Ikkarei Emunah. None of those principles require that a person love Hashem or rejoice in suffering. Therefore, one who struggles to feel joy in the face of hardship is not, by definition, violating a formal principle of faith.
However, one of the ikkarim does affirm that "the entire Torah we have today is from Heaven." That means every teaching in the Torah — including the verses that describe Hashem's love for us and His fatherly guidance — is true. The Torah explicitly portrays Hashem as a loving Father who disciplines His children not out of cruelty, but out of care: "For Hashem your God chastises you as a man chastises his son" (Devarim 8:5). If a person were to deny that entirely — to claim that Hashem's actions are random, malicious, or devoid of meaning — then, while he might not be rejecting a standalone ikkar, he would be denying the truth of the Torah itself, which is one of the ikkarim. So, we return to our central dilemma: if a person does not believe that his pain has purpose, is he a kofer? Perhaps not in the formal sense of rejecting one of the Thirteen Principles — but he is certainly weakening his connection to one of them. He is, in effect, questioning the Torah's portrayal of Hashem as a loving and purposeful Father.
Defining Emunah and Bitachon
Before we can address our questions, we must first understand what emunah and bitachon really are.
Emunah is the inner knowledge — the conviction — that something is true. It's not a vague hope or wishful thinking; it's a belief grounded in understanding. Imagine standing on a glass floor in a high-rise building. You've seen others walk across it safely. You know it was designed to hold people. You may feel nervous, but intellectually, you're convinced that it can support your weight. That confidence — the mental acceptance that this glass can hold you — is emunah.
Bitachon, however, is what happens when you actually step onto that glass floor. It's the act of relying on what you believe. Emunah exists in the mind; bitachon is its expression in action. The stronger your emunah, the more naturally your bitachon will follow. The same applies to a simple chair. If you're uncertain who built it or how sturdy it is, you'll sit down gingerly, hesitant to place your full weight on it. But if you trust its craftsmanship, you'll sit comfortably and immediately — that's bitachon. And, just as important, bitachon can grow through experience. Each time you test the chair and see that it holds, your confidence deepens. Practice builds trust. In spiritual terms, each time we "step onto the glass floor" of life and experience Hashem's reliability firsthand, our bitachon strengthens.
Struggling to Live What We Believe
Therefore, the answer to our second question is that a person who is upset at Hashem does not necessarily deny that everything is for the best on an intellectual level. It's entirely possible for a person to believe, intellectually and spiritually, that everything Hashem does is for the good — and yet find it emotionally impossible to feel that truth in the moment. Such a person is not a kofer. He hasn't rejected the principle; he simply struggles to live it.
This distinction returns us to the difference between emunah and bitachon. Emunah is knowledge — the conviction that something is true. Bitachon is the act of relying on that truth in real life. A person can have emunah without always managing bitachon. He may believe in his mind that Hashem's ways are good, yet his heart still aches and resists. That's not heresy; that's humanity.
Just because a person cannot yet rely on his emunah emotionally does not mean he lacks faith. It means his faith has not yet made its full journey — from the head to the heart, from concept to trust. Emunah is knowing that the glass floor can hold you; bitachon is having the calm to step onto it.
From Knowledge to Trust
How can a person bring this belief from the head to the heart — from emunah to bitachon? How can knowledge become lived faith? The answer, as with the chair we spoke about earlier, is through practice and experience. When a person sits down on a chair and finds that it holds him, his confidence grows. The next time he sits, he does so more easily, more naturally. Over time, the fear disappears entirely.
So too with bitachon. Each time we experience Hashem's goodness — even in small ways — we strengthen our spiritual "muscle memory." We begin to trust, not only because we know Hashem is good, but because we've seen it.
This doesn't mean we'll always understand every difficulty. Much of life's goodness is hidden, and the full picture of Hashem's plan will only be revealed in the World to Come. But whenever we do see how something painful ultimately led to blessing — when the job we didn't get opened the door to something better, when a disappointment protected us from harm, when a delay turned into a gift — we must take note.
By consciously remembering those moments, by reviewing them again and again, we train our hearts to feel what our minds already believe: that Hashem's ways, even when concealed, are good.
Noach's Long Wait: Seeing the Hidden Good
In this week's parsha, Parshas Noach, we read about Noach, who was six hundred years old when the great flood — the mabul — came and wiped out the world. Rashi, at the end of last week's parsha, notes something remarkable: Noach did not have children until the age of five hundred. That's astonishing, considering that in his generation, people typically began having children at around one hundred years old.
For four hundred years, Noach lived childless. We can only imagine the emotional struggle. Even in our times, few challenges compare to infertility — the pain, the prayers, the longing. Noach faced that trial not for one or two decades, but for four entire centuries, while the world around him was filled with growing families and new generations. Rashi explains that Hashem delayed Noach's children for a reason. Hashem said, in essence: "I don't yet know whether Noach's children will be righteous or wicked. If they turn out to be wicked, they will perish in the mabul, and I do not want to cause Noach such pain." So Hashem postponed their birth until a time when they would still be too young to be judged by Heaven.
In those early generations — before Matan Torah — Divine judgment applied only once a person reached one hundred years old. By waiting until Noach was five hundred to give him children, Hashem ensured that they would be under one hundred when the flood came, and therefore spared from that harsh decree.
What emerges is breathtaking. Noach's long, painful wait wasn't punishment; it was protection. Hashem was not withholding blessing — He was ensuring that when the blessing came, it would endure. The very delay that must have felt like silence from Heaven was, in truth, an act of compassion — Hashem's way of sparing Noach future heartbreak.
We often only understand why something happened much later, sometimes only in hindsight. Hashem was essentially saying: "Trust Me. The children you long for will come, just not now. If I give them to you later, they will live; if I give them to you now, you might one day stand over their loss. Trust that My delay is My mercy."
Strengthening Our Bitachon Muscles
By learning and studying these stories, like that of Noach, who waited patiently for centuries, and by seeking similar patterns in our own experiences, we strengthen our bitachon muscles.
When we review these lessons again and again, when we hear about people who discovered meaning in moments of pain or blessing in disguise, the truths of emunah begin to sink deeper. Repetition engrains trust. Each story becomes another layer of reassurance that Hashem's hand is always guiding us, even when we cannot see it. This is, after all, one of the reasons the Torah records these narratives. They are not history; they are training. The Torah gives us living examples of faith in action — models to emulate, reminders that life's delays and disappointments are often the very paths toward Hashem's goodness. By studying them, reflecting on them, and seeing echoes of them in our own journeys, we transform belief into trust — emunah into bitachon — and we learn to live with the quiet confidence that everything Hashem does is truly for the good.
When Faith Transforms Reality
What's even more striking is that nowhere in the Torah do we actually see that Noach suffered. We assumed he did — because from our perspective, waiting four hundred years for children would be unbearable. But perhaps Noach was such a ma'amin, such a true believer, that he didn't experience those years as suffering at all. Perhaps he understood, deep down, everything we've been saying — that Hashem's timing and purpose are always good, even when hidden. His faith was so complete that it shielded him from the pain of uncertainty.
We find a similar idea in the Torah's description of Sarah Imeinu. The pasuk says, "The years of Sarah's life were one hundred years, and twenty years, and seven years — the years of Sarah's life." Rashi, quoting Chazal, explains that all of her years were equally good.
At first glance, that seems impossible. How could the years of joy, when Yitzchak was born, be equally good to the long decades of waiting, of longing, of watching Hagar give birth to Yishmael while she remained childless? How could the day she stood under the chuppah with Avraham be equated with the days she was captured by Pharoah and Avimelech?
But Chazal mean something profound. For Sarah, every moment was good — not because every moment was pleasant, but because she believed that every moment came from Hashem. The same Hashem who gave her laughter at ninety was the One who had withheld that laughter for decades. If everything is from Him, and He is the source of all good, then every stage of life is, by definition, good.
That is the deepest level of emunah — when a person's trust in Hashem doesn't only help him survive hardship, but transforms his perception of it. Life itself becomes good, not because circumstances have changed, but because his emunah has changed the way he sees them.
The Steve Jobs Mashal: Seeing the Hidden Opportunity
Imagine a man earning $85,000 a year. He's not rich, but he's comfortable — secure in his routine, proud of his stability. One day, a young, unknown entrepreneur named Steve Jobs approaches him and says, "I'm starting a new company called Apple. Want to be my partner?"
Our $85,000-a-year man laughs politely. "No thanks. I'm not risking my job for your crazy idea." And just like that, he turns down the opportunity to become a partner in a future billion-dollar company.
Now imagine that, in Heaven, Hashem truly wants this man to become wealthy — not for vanity, but because He knows that with money he will build, give, and help others. The only way to make it happen is to push him out of his comfort zone. So, on the Friday before Steve Jobs walks into his life, Hashem arranges that his boss calls him in and fires him.
At that moment, the man feels devastated. "Why, Hashem? I've worked so hard!" But his guardian angel, watching from above, is dancing for joy. "Finally! He's being fired! Now he'll be open to the offer that will change his life." From the angel's perspective, this isn't tragedy — it's hatzlacha! It's the prelude to blessing.
If we could see the whole picture, we would react the same way. Every disappointment, every "firing," every lost opportunity would feel exciting — because we would know it's simply Hashem repositioning us for something better. Of course, we rarely get to see the Steve Jobs moment that follows. That's why it takes emunah and bitachon. Emunah tells us — in our minds — that Hashem has a plan and that it must be for the good. Bitachon helps us live that belief, to trust it emotionally even when we can't yet see the outcome.
The more we reinforce our emunah — through learning, reflection, and remembering past moments when things "worked out" — the more our bitachon strengthens. Each experience becomes another proof that the Divine plan, even when it begins with pain, ends with goodness.
May we all be blessed to strengthen our emunah and bitachon — to know with clarity and to trust with serenity that every event in our lives, from joy to struggle, comes from a Father who loves us infinitely.
May we learn, like Noach, to see Hashem's hidden kindness even in long years of waiting; like Sarah Imeinu, to recognize that every day of life is good, whether it brings laughter or tears; and like the man in our mashal, to understand that sometimes being "fired" is really the beginning of our greatest opportunity.
And may the study of these Torah truths fill our hearts with calm and confidence — so that we can walk through life not only believing that Hashem is good, but feeling His goodness in every step we take.
Have an amazing Shabbos!
Rabbi Moshe Revah Rosh HaYeshiva Mrevah2@touro.edu | 
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