A few years ago, I sat down with my rabbi to consult about starting a new project. I told him my idea, and he listened carefully. When I finished, he said, "This sounds amazing. It will inspire so many people. Why don't you just do it?"
I looked at him and said, "But I'm scared I'm going to fail."
He leaned forward and said, "So what exactly are you scared of?"
I repeated, "I'm scared I'm going to fail."
He looked at me with a smile and said, "Did you fail yet? Has it happened?"
I sat there, a little embarrassed, and said, "No."
"So then," he said, "why don't you try?"
That hit me hard. I realized that what was holding me back wasn't failure itself, it was fear of failure. Fear of something that hadn't even happened yet.
And it made me think about how often we tell our kids, "Step up to the plate and swing." They say, "But what if I strike out?" We answer, "That's okay. Life isn't only about hitting a home run. It's about playing the game." Because if you never swing, you'll never hit at all.
With that in mind, let's look at our parasha.
The Torah says that before going out to war, the Kohen announces to the soldiers:
מִי־הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר בָּנָה בַיִת חָדָשׁ וְלֹא חֲנָכוֹ יֵלֵךְ וְיָשֹׁב לְבֵיתוֹ פֶּן־יָמוּת בַּמִּלְחָמָה וְאִישׁ אַחֵר יַחְנְכֶנּוּ. וּמִי־הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר נָטַע כֶּרֶם וְלֹא חִלְּלוֹ יֵלֵךְ וְיָשֹׁב לְבֵיתוֹ פֶּן־יָמוּת בַּמִּלְחָמָה וְאִישׁ אַחֵר יְחַלְּלֶנּוּ. וּמִי־הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר אֵרַשׂ אִשָּׁה וְלֹא לְקָחָהּ יֵלֵךְ וְיָשֹׁב לְבֵיתוֹ פֶּן־יָמוּת בַּמִּלְחָמָה וְאִישׁ אַחֵר יִקָּחֶנָּה.
"Who is the man who has built a new house and not inaugurated it, let him return home lest he die in war and another man dedicate it. Who is the man who has planted a vineyard and not redeemed it, let him return home lest he die in war and another man redeem it. Who is the man who has betrothed a woman and not married her, let him return home lest he die in war and another man marry her." (Devarim 20:5,7)
And then the Torah adds a fourth category:
מִי־הָאִישׁ הַיָּרֵא וְרַךְ הַלֵּבָב יֵלֵךְ וְיָשֹׁב לְבֵיתוֹ וְלֹא יִמַּס אֶת לְבַב אֶחָיו כִּלְבָבוֹ.
"And who is the man who is fearful and fainthearted, let him return home so that he not cause his brothers' hearts to melt like his own." (Devarim 20:8)
Three questions come up.
First, why list the first three cases at all? If you are afraid, just go home. The fourth case already seems to cover everyone.
Second, what does the Torah mean by "fearful and fainthearted"? Everyone has fears. Are we saying that anyone who is nervous about battle should just leave?
Third, why is the reason given "so that he does not melt the hearts of his brothers"?
To answer, let's start with the Gemara. Some say the "fearful" man is afraid because of his sins. Rabbi Akiva explains: ke-peshuto, it means what it says. He is simply fearful.
But the Torah's wording is precise. Yareh v'rach ha-levav, fearful and soft of heart. This is not just someone who feels fear, which is natural. This is someone whose fear defines him, who sees fear not as a fog to walk through but as a solid wall that cannot be broken.
Now we understand the difference. The first three categories are tangible fears. A man who has a house not yet dedicated, a vineyard not yet harvested, a bride not yet married, his obligations weigh on him. They are real. Once he finishes them, he can return to the battlefield.
But the fourth is different. His fear has no object. It is not tied to anything real. It is fear itself, and fear itself spreads. It infects those around him until no one can fight. That is why he must go home.
And we see this all the time in life. Someone wants to launch a business and we answer, "Why leave your comfortable bank job?" Someone wants to put their voice out there and we say, "What about the trolls?" Someone wants to date and we say, "Do you really want to risk rejection?" Out of our own fears we play it small, and we push others to play small too.
There is a scene in a movie that captures this lesson. A football player is told by his coach to carry another teammate on his back. The player says, "I can make it to the 50-yard line." The coach blindfolds him so he cannot see how far he has left, and with constant encouragement keeps pushing him forward. Step by step, breath by breath, he carries on until finally he collapses, in the end zone. What happened? He thought his limit was the 50-yard line, but with hope and belief he went far beyond what he imagined possible.
That is the greatest gift we can give our children, our students, our friends, and our nation: the gift of hope. The belief that even when they feel limited, they can push further. That they can carry more than they thought. That they can reach the end zone. Hope is what has carried Am Yisrael for thousands of years. It is what makes us creators and dreamers, what lifts us to fight our battles and build our future.
So we must ask ourselves: Are my fears real, or am I fearing fear itself?
Our role is not to spread fear but to plant hope. To help others dream, to guide them practically, and to remind them that even when they feel stuck at the 50-yard line, they can keep moving.
Because in the end, when our days are done, we will not regret the times we swung and missed. We will regret the times we never picked up the bat.
Shabbat Shalom Rav Shlomo