Parshat Ha’azinu – Speak to Leave a LegacyThe Covenant of Lasting Words

“Ha’azinu HaShamayim Va’adabeirah” – A Song That Echoes Forever

Parshat Ha’azinu opens with a call unlike any other: “הַאֲזִינוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם וַאֲדַבֵּרָה, וְתִשְׁמַע הָאָרֶץ אִמְרֵי-פִי” — “Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak; let the earth hear the words of my mouth” (Devarim 32:1).

Unlike earlier parshiyot, where Moshe addressed only the people before him, here he summons heaven and earth themselves. This is not the language of ordinary instruction; it is a cosmic summons. Moshe is saying: these words are larger than one generation, larger even than one people. They must be engraved into the very fabric of creation. His final words are not bound by a single moment in history but inscribed into eternity.

Chazal explain that Ha’azinu is unique among Moshe’s teachings because it was written as a Shirah, a song, and placed in the Aron next to the Luchot so that it would never be forgotten. Songs travel differently than speeches: they linger, they echo, they can be carried on the lips of children long after the singer has gone. By casting his last message as a song, Moshe ensured it would not fade into the background of history but would reverberate in the soul of every Jew.

The Sfas Emes sharpens the point: why invoke both heaven and earth? Because heaven represents permanence, and earth represents daily reality. Moshe wanted his words to live simultaneously in both — as lofty as the heavens, yet as practical as the ground we walk on. Words that remain eternal, but also words that shape daily choices.

Other commentators add that by summoning heaven and earth, Moshe was ensuring witnesses that never die. Human beings pass on; generations come and go. But heaven and earth endure. They testify across the centuries that these words are binding, alive, and still addressed to us today.

“Ya’arof KaMatar Likchi” – Words That Nurture Like Rain

Moshe continues his Shirah with striking imagery: “יַעֲרֹף כַּמָּטָר לִקְחִי, תִּזַּל כַּטַּל אִמְרָתִי” — “May my teaching drop like rain, may my words flow like dew” (Devarim 32:2).

Moshe could have chosen the language of fire, thunder, or the sun — images of overwhelming force. Instead, he speaks of rain and dew, of nourishment and quiet constancy. He teaches that words are not meant to overwhelm but to sustain. Rain may fall in torrents or in gentle showers, and dew arrives so silently that we barely notice it until the grass glistens at dawn. Together, they reveal the dual power of speech: sometimes strong and urgent, sometimes soft and subtle — but always life-giving.

The Malbim explains that rain symbolizes words that descend with impact, confronting us with truth and demanding change, while dew represents words that seep slowly into the heart, cultivating growth over time. Both are necessary for Torah — and both are necessary for parenting.

The Midrash (Sifrei Devarim 306) deepens this image, teaching that just as rain causes each plant to grow according to its kind — wheat as wheat, grapes as grapes, grass as grass — so too Torah’s words meet each soul in its unique way. The same words spoken by Moshe could land differently in each listener, nourishing what was already planted within.

The Sfas Emes adds a further dimension: rain represents words spoken to the community as a whole, shaping collective identity, while dew represents words whispered personally, absorbed quietly into an individual’s heart. Torah must speak in both modes, for a people cannot live without shared truths — but neither can a soul live without words spoken just for them.

So it is with our children. Some words we speak to establish family identity, like rain falling on a field — shared values, shared commitments, the language of “we.” Other words must be spoken privately, like dew on the grass — intimate blessings, personal encouragement, reassurances tailored to one child’s unique heart. Even within the same child, the need may shift from moment to moment. The art of parenting is learning to bring words that truly nurture — sometimes strong, sometimes gentle, always rooted in love.

Moshe’s prayer, then, becomes our own: “May my words be like rain, may they flow like dew.” May what we speak to our children not merely pass through their ears, but sink deeply into their hearts, nourishing life long after the moment has passed.

But words are not only nourishment in the present; they also tether us to the past and future. And so Moshe turns next to memory — to the way words anchor generations in covenant and belonging.

“Zechor Y’mot Olam” – Memory as Anchor

Moshe then calls the people to look backward as well as forward: “זְכֹר יְמוֹת עוֹלָם, בִּינוּ שְׁנוֹת דֹּר וָדוֹר; שְׁאַל אָבִיךָ וְיַגֵּדְךָ, זְקֵנֶיךָ וְיֹאמְרוּ לָךְ” — “Remember the days of old, consider the years of generation after generation; ask your father and he will tell you, your elders and they will say to you” (Devarim 32:7).

Memory here is not nostalgia. It is covenantal orientation. Rashi explains that Moshe is urging the people to recall both the greatness and the failures of earlier generations, to see their lives as part of a larger story in which Hashem is always present. The Ramban emphasizes that each generation must hand down testimony of Hashem’s faithfulness, so that the chain of belonging is never broken.

The Sifrei points out that Moshe does not only say “remember” but also “ask.” Memory is not a solitary act. It is relational — drawing from the voices of fathers and elders, entering into dialogue with the past so that its lessons become alive in the present.

Chassidic teachers note that the phrase “dor vador” — generation to generation — points not only to continuity but to renewal. Each generation must take the covenant anew, finding its own voice within the song of history. Memory is never static; it is dynamic, interpreted and lived in ways that meet the challenges of the moment.

For parents, this pasuk is deeply personal. Our words do more than shape the day-to-day. They connect our children to a story larger than themselves — a story that tells them they are wanted, rooted, and never alone. Every blessing we speak, every story we tell of grandparents and ancestors, every reminder of Hashem’s loyalty through history, becomes an anchor. In those moments, we ourselves become the “fathers” and “elders” who pass memory forward. We are the living link that teaches our children: You belong to something enduring. You are part of a chain that will not be broken.

“Hashem Badad Yanchenu” – Held Even in Aloneness

Later Moshe describes Hashem’s care for His people in the desert: “ה’ בָּדָד יַנְחֶנּוּ, וְאֵין עִמּוֹ אֵל נֵכָר” — “Hashem alone guided him, and no foreign god was with him” (Devarim 32:12).

The Ramban explains that this verse recalls the wilderness years, when Israel was sustained in a barren land with no one else to lean on. The very survival of the nation — manna from heaven, water from the rock, clouds of protection — testified that Hashem Himself was guiding them step by step.

The Sfas Emes draws our attention to the word “badad” — alone. On the surface it might sound like loneliness, but in this context it means exclusive devotion: Hashem alone guided them, without intermediaries, without distractions, without dependence on any foreign power. Even when the nation felt isolated, they were in fact being carried in intimacy.

The Midrash (Sifrei Devarim 320) compares this to a parent leading a child through a dangerous wilderness. No one else is there, no one else can provide. Every step is held, every need supplied, every danger warded off — not through distance, but through closeness. “Badad” means that when there was no one else, Hashem’s presence was most revealed.

This pasuk also hints at the paradox of spiritual growth. Sometimes the greatest nearness is discovered precisely in aloneness, when all other supports fall away and we realize that Hashem Himself is holding us. The Kotzker Rebbe put it sharply: one can feel most surrounded by God at the very moment when one seems most cut off from others.

For parenting, the resonance is clear. There will be times our children feel profoundly alone — misunderstood by peers, excluded from groups, or wrestling silently with struggles they cannot articulate. In those moments, their deepest need is not for quick solutions but for steady guidance. And sometimes, children may even test us to see if we will remain present in their aloneness. Our constancy becomes the proof that they are still guided, even when they cannot feel held.

Sometimes the gift is not fixing the problem, but being the presence that reassures: “I am still here. I will guide you step by step. You are not alone.”

Yet even presence in loneliness is not the whole picture. Moshe’s final charge is about the very nature of words themselves — that they are never empty, but life itself.

“Ki Lo Davar Reik Hu Mikem” – Words Are Life Itself

Finally, Moshe concludes his Shirah with a declaration about the very nature of Torah:“כִּי לֹא דָבָר רֵק הוּא מִכֶּם, כִּי הוּא חַיֵּיכֶם” — “For it is not an empty word for you, it is your very life”  (Devarim 32:47).

The Ramban explains that Torah’s words can never be dismissed as empty or secondary. They are the lifeblood of the Jewish people, the channel through which Divine vitality flows into our lives. To abandon these words is to abandon life itself; to cleave to them is to discover endless renewal.

The Sifrei adds that “lo davar reik” means that no word of Torah is without meaning. Even the smallest letter, even the seemingly redundant pasuk, carries layers of depth waiting to be revealed. Nothing is wasted, nothing is trivial.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov expands this beyond Torah learning into the realm of human speech. He taught that even one word of encouragement, spoken with sincerity, can revive a soul weighed down by despair. Just as Torah’s words are never empty, so too a parent’s words, when rooted in love and faith, carry immeasurable power. What seems to us a small phrase — “I believe in you,” “You are precious to me,” “You can try again” — may, for our child, become life itself.

The Kotzker Rebbe once asked: if Torah is not empty, then why does Moshe need to say so? His answer: Torah becomes “empty” only mikkem — because of you. If we treat words as hollow, if we speak them without meaning or live them without conviction, they ring lifeless. But if we infuse them with sincerity, then “hu chayeichem” — they become alive, carrying vitality from one heart to another, and from one generation to the next.

The same truth applies to parenting. Our words to our children become “empty” only mikkem — if we let them slip out thoughtlessly, without care, without conviction. A careless word can wound and echo in harmful ways. But when we choose words with presence, love, and intention, they become life-giving — strengthening identity, anchoring belonging, and carrying faith forward.

Ha’azinu’s closing charge, then, is not only about Torah but about the nature of all speech in covenantal life. Words are never neutral. They either transmit life or drain it. They either build belonging or create fracture. To speak with meaning is to step into the covenant itself — to take responsibility for the way words can shape identity, faith, and the future.

Parenting Lens – Speak to Leave a Legacy

When we bring Ha’azinu into the heart of parenting, a clear theme emerges: words endure. Moshe’s Shirah is not only history and prophecy; it is a blueprint for how words can shape identity and secure belonging for generations. It is no accident that Moshe’s final words come as Shirah. He knew that what lasts in a child’s heart is not strategy or control but the echo of words spoken with love. The verses of Ha’azinu call us to see our speech not as fleeting sound but as covenantal presence.

Ha’azinu HaShamayim reminds us that our words are never spoken into a vacuum. They are heard by heaven and earth, witnesses that endure beyond our own lives. In parenting this means that the tone and language we choose with our children reverberate far beyond the moment. A sharp word may echo in their heart for years; a blessing whispered in love may sustain them long after we are gone. Ya’arof KaMatar deepens this truth, teaching us to speak like rain and dew. Rain sometimes falls in force, clarifying and washing away confusion; dew arrives gently, strengthening quietly. Our children need both: firm direction that gives clarity and soft reassurance that nourishes their spirit. The wisdom is knowing when to offer strength and when to offer gentleness — and always ensuring that both come from love.

This legacy is not only about guidance in the moment but about anchoring identity across time. Zechor Y’mot Olam calls us to tie our children into the chain of memory and covenant. When we tell family stories, recall ancestors’ resilience, or bless our children with reminders of Hashem’s loyalty, we pass on more than words; we give them a place within a story larger than themselves. These words become an anchor of identity: You are not just you — you are part of something enduring, a story that began before you and will continue after you.

Yet even with memory and guidance, there will be moments of profound aloneness. Hashem Badad Yanchenu reminds us that our role is not always to remove loneliness but to walk beside our children in it. They may test us, wondering if we will remain present in their silence or their struggle. Our constancy becomes the proof that they are still guided, even when they cannot feel held. Sometimes the gift is not fixing the problem, but being the presence that whispers: “I am still here. You are not alone.”

And finally, Ki Lo Davar Reik Hu Mikem drives it home: words are never empty. Every sentence spoken with love has power to shape life. A child who hears, “I believe in you,” “You are precious to me,” or “You can begin again” carries those words as living strength. Just as Torah’s words are chayeichem — your life — so too a parent’s words can become a source of vitality in a child’s inner world.

In our 10-Step Parenting Path, Ha’azinu is Speak to Leave a Legacy with the tool of Speak with Meaning. This is the heart of “Secure” in the 5-S model. True security is built when a child knows that the words spoken to them will not shatter but steady, not belittle but bless. When parents learn to speak with meaning, they do more than manage behavior — they plant seeds of identity, memory, and hope that will echo long after the moment has passed.

And in doing so, Ha’azinu also gestures toward the fifth S — “Significant.” Legacy is significance: knowing that one’s life is bound to something larger. When children hear words that bless, that anchor them in memory and covenant, they learn: I matter. I belong. My life carries meaning. In this way, our words secure them in the present and gift them significance for the future.

Hashem’s Model – “ולקחתי / והבאתי”

Among the four expressions of redemption, Hashem promises: “וְלָקַחְתִּי אֶתְכֶם לִי לְעָם… וְהֵבֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם” — “I will take you as My people… and I will bring you” (Shemot 6:7–8).

The earlier stages — והוצאתי, והצלתי, וגאלתי — describe liberation: taking us out, saving us from danger, redeeming us from slavery. But וְלָקַחְתִּי and וְהֵבֵאתִי are different. They are not about escape but about embrace. Not only freedom from but closeness to. Not just survival but belonging.

The Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 6:4) teaches that וְלָקַחְתִּי marks the moment of marriage between Hashem and Israel — when redemption ceases to be a rescue operation and becomes a covenant of love. Freedom alone can leave a person adrift; only when it leads to connection and rootedness does it become true geulah.

The Sfas Emes explains that the deepest redemption is not defined by what we leave behind but by Who holds us near. Geulah culminates in Hashem’s voice: “You are Mine. I take you. I bring you.” This is more than action; it is speech that anchors identity. Hashem redeems not only by lifting burdens but by naming us, claiming us, and bringing us close.

This becomes the divine model for parenting. A child’s greatest security does not come from parents who solve every problem or shield them from every fall. It comes from covenantal words that echo Hashem’s: “You are mine. You belong. I will not let go.”

To “take” a child in this sense is not to control them but to anchor them in belonging. To “bring” them is to guide them steadily into their future, even when they falter. Like Hashem’s promise of וְלָקַחְתִּי / וְהֵבֵאתִי, our speech as parents can transform mere protection into an embrace — a bond of loyalty and love that a child can trust, even in struggle.

Closing Message

Ha’azinu is Moshe’s last song, his final gift to Am Yisrael. He does not leave us with wealth, power, or strategy, but with words — words cast as a Shirah, a song meant to endure. In this, he teaches us that the most lasting legacy we can leave is not material but spiritual: the words that will echo in our children’s hearts long after we are gone.

Each pasuk of Ha’azinu reminds us of the covenantal weight of speech. Ha’azinu HaShamayim teaches that our words are witnessed by heaven and earth — they reverberate far beyond the moment. Ya’arof KaMatar shows that words can nurture like rain and dew, sometimes strong, sometimes gentle, always life-giving. Zechor Y’mot Olam roots us in memory, reminding us that our speech ties the next generation into a chain of faith and belonging. Hashem Badad Yanchenu reassures us that even in aloneness, guiding words can keep a child from despair. And Ki Lo Davar Reik Hu Mikem drives home the truth that words are never empty — they are life itself.

As parents, this parsha calls us to consider what words we are placing in the hearts of our children. Will they remember only our corrections and criticisms, or will they carry our blessings, our encouragement, our faith in who they are becoming?

When we choose our words with care — like rain and dew, like covenant and blessing — we plant something eternal. Our children carry those words into their own journeys, and through them, our love and faith continue to live.

This week, let us pause and ask: What words of mine will echo for generations? 

We cannot always control which lessons our children will carry,

but we can choose to fill their hearts with words that bless rather than break,

that steady rather than shatter.

And then, in a quiet moment, let us speak them —

words that anchor, words that secure, words that give life.

For when spoken with meaning, words become not only guidance for today but strength for tomorrow — an echo that, like Moshe’s Shirah, endures forever.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar

What you speak today can echo for generations.