Imagine you wrote a book. You pour your heart and soul into it and you work for months, maybe years, refining every word. Finally, you put it out into the world. And then you start getting reviews.
The first one-star review comes in. Someone writes, “Waste of money.” Then another: “Who made this person an author?” A third: “Don’t bother.” A fourth: “Thank G-d Amazon allows returns.”
Before you know it, your book has 700 reviews, and almost every single one of them is one star. And it doesn’t stop there. People start making videos; opening your book, dropping it into the trash, and uploading it to social media. Others start burning it. The clips go viral.
Can you imagine the humiliation? Could you find a hole deep enough to crawl into?
That, my friends, was the Rambam.
For ten years, the Rambam labored over the Mishneh Torah, fourteen monumental books of halacha, the first comprehensive codification of Jewish law. And what happened? He was condemned. Criticized. Rabbanim across communities accused him of arrogance, of overstepping boundaries.
Did that stop him? No.
Years later, he published Moreh Nevuchim, The Guide for the Perplexed, one of the most profound philosophical works ever written. And once again, he faced a storm of backlash. Communities banned the book. And soon after, in public squares across France and Spain, copies of Moreh Nevuchim were even burned.
Imagine if the Rambam had said, “That’s it. I’m done. They don’t like it. Everyone’s against me.” If he had stopped writing, we would have lost two of the greatest works of Jewish thought ever composed.
And the Rambam wasn’t the only one.
The Ramchal, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, was a genius from childhood. They say that by fourteen, he knew Gemara, Midrash, Mishnah—everything—by heart. At seventeen, he wrote his first sefer, Derech Hashem, an organized, accessible presentation of Jewish theology and Kabbalah. But because he lived only thirty years after the false messiah Shabtai Tzvi, people became suspicious. They saw mystical writings and immediately feared another heretic. So they banned him from teaching and writing. They demanded he stop completely.
Imagine if he had listened. Imagine if the Ramchal had said, “Fine. I’ll stop. It’s not worth the criticism.” We would never have had Mesillas Yesharim.
Instead, he left Italy, moved to Amsterdam, and kept writing—quietly, steadfastly and courageously. And because of that, every yeshiva today studies Mesillas Yesharim as a foundation of personal growth and spiritual development.
How much easier it would have been for him to give up and to live quietly; to be what we call a simple Jew who doesn’t make waves. But he didn’t. He chose greatness.
And that’s the message.
If the Rambam had stopped, we wouldn’t have Mishneh Torah. If the Ramchal had stopped, we wouldn’t have Mesillas Yesharim. And if you stop when the world criticizes you, we may lose the book only you were meant to write, the song only you were meant to sing and the light only you were meant to bring.
So yes, keep creating and keep building, even when the world throws stones. Because every soul that ever made a difference in Jewish history had to walk through fire first.
