There’s a fascinating pattern in halacha and Jewish life: sometimes identity follows the father, and other times it follows the mother. Which shevet am I from? That comes from the father. But am I Jewish at all? That’s determined solely by the mother. When someone is called up for an aliyah, we use the father’s name. But for a Mi Shebeirach when someone is sick, we use the mother’s name. Why the difference?
A firstborn son gets a double inheritance—financial, therefore paternal. But when it comes to Pidyon Haben, the status of a firstborn depends on the mother. Time and again, we see this split: matters of physicality go after the father; matters of kedusha go after the mother.
This distinction isn’t just legal—it’s deeply spiritual. Throughout Tanach and Jewish history, whenever Klal Yisroel faced a national crisis, it was the women who rose to save us. When Yishmael was spiritually endangering Yitzchak, it was Sarah who stepped in. When Eisav sought to kill Yaakov, Rivka ensured his survival. When baby Moshe lay helpless in a basket in the Nile, it was Miriam and Basya who brought about his rescue. In Egypt, the Gemara tells us, the redemption came b’zchus nashim tzidkaniyos—the righteous women. Shifra and Puah, defying Pharaoh’s decree, saved the Jewish infants. At the Sin of the Golden Calf, the women stood strong and did not participate. In the time of Purim, it was Esther who brought salvation. During the Chanukah story, it was Yehudis who sparked the turnaround.
Why is it that in these pivotal moments, women are the saviors?
The Arizal teaches a beautiful and profound idea: whenever Klal Yisroel is in existential danger, the redemption comes through women. Why? Because the woman is the otzar—the treasure chest—of her husband’s kedusha. She stores, preserves, and magnifies the holiness of her home and her people. When the Jewish nation is short on merit and the scales tip toward suffering, only a new infusion of kedusha can tilt them back—and that holiness comes from the women.
Now we understand the halachic distinction: mundane or legal matters, like tribal identity or inheritance, go after the father. But anything infused with spiritual power—whether it’s determining Jewish status, bringing healing, or channeling kedusha—goes after the mother.
A powerful story brings this truth to life. In a sefer called The Parsha of Fire, a young woman named Ariella from Philadelphia, unaffiliated with Torah observance, traveled to learn in Eretz Yisroel. There, she became religious and was encouraged to spend a Shabbos with a special family back home.
She was dropped off at a home before Shabbos and welcomed by a woman who showed her to her room. Soon after, the woman suggested they daven Mincha together. Ariella was surprised to see how the woman davened—slowly, with intense focus, finger on the place, even repeating words she felt she hadn’t said properly.
Later that evening, the woman’s husband came in—with a group of guests—and Ariella was stunned. It was none other than Rav Shmuel Kamenetsky. The woman davening Mincha so slowly and carefully was his wife.
Ariella asked her: “Why do you daven like that?”
Rebbetzin Kamenetsky replied with unforgettable words:
“These words are our weapons. This is how we fight our wars. Davening needs to awaken our senses. We must hear and feel the words we say. When women pray, we are not merely talking to Hashem—we are waging war on behalf of Klal Yisroel. We daven that our children remain pure, that our homes remain whole, that our people remain safe. These words carry the weight of our nation’s future. Without them, we lose the war.”
As we read Parshas Naso and consider the roles of men and women in Torah and Jewish destiny, we are reminded that the holiness of the Jewish people is safeguarded, amplified, and carried forward by its women. In moments of crisis and in times of peace, the spiritual backbone of Klal Yisroel rests in their merit.
Let us listen more carefully to their tefilos—and perhaps even to our own.
