From Weariness to Wings: “Fear Not, I Am With You” — Yeshayahu 40:27–41:16
In these verses we step into the heart of consolation that follows “Nachamu.” Israel, wearied by exile, voices a piercing doubt: “Why should you say, O Jacob, and speak, O Israel, ‘My way has been hidden from the LORD, and from my God, my judgment passes’.” (Yeshayahu 40:27) The prophet answers not with rebuke but with a widening horizon—HaShem is eternal vigor who “Who gives the tired strength, and to him who has no strength, He increases strength,” lifting those who hope in Him to soar like eagles: “But those who put their hope in the LORD shall renew [their] vigor; they shall raise wings as eagles; they shall run and not weary; they shall walk and not tire.” (40:29, 31) Chapter 41 then turns outward to the “islands,” summoning the world to a quiet courtroom where history itself testifies that HaShem guides rises and falls; in that setting, Israel is named “My servant,” called not to fear but to partner: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not frightened, for I am your God; I strengthen you and I help you; I uphold you with My victorious right hand.” (41:10) The martial images that close our section—“worm of Yaakov,” “new sharp threshing sledge,” “mountains” reduced to chaff—are best heard as a promise that corrosive ideologies will be sifted away while human beings are lifted and refined (41:14–16).
Read this way, “Why should you say, O Jacob?” (40:27) is the cry of a soul tempted by the modern idolatries of invisibility and insignificance—the feeling that our efforts don’t matter. The navi counters: your path is not hidden, it is held. “Who gives the tired strength…” (40:29) becomes a program of divine partnership: HaShem supplies renewable spiritual energy precisely when our resources are spent, so that we can retire the cult of self-sufficiency and embrace holy interdependence. Rashi explains “yachalifu koach”—“shall renew [their] strength”—on this very verse (Rashi, Perush al Yeshayahu 40:31). Ibn Ezra reads our complaint as the exile’s mistake of judging by surface events: “My way is hid from the Lord, that is, He does not see what I am doing… and [one thinks] my judgment passes” (Ibn Ezra, Perush al Yeshayahu 40:27).
The metaphors of flight and threshing invite a gentle reimagination of “destruction” as the end of idolatrous and violent ideas. The “eagle’s wings” are perspective: the ability to rise above the noisy urgencies of the moment and see how kindness disciplined by inner strength produces harmony, how perseverance joined with humility generates true influence, and how deep bonding gives sovereignty its dignity. In daily life this means pausing before speaking when we’re depleted, so our words carry healing rather than heat; choosing integrity in business even when no one is looking, so we harvest trust rather than short-term gain; and shaping homes where prayer, generosity, and study are woven into the week, so our kitchens become altars of presence. These are acts that grind false gods—consumerism-as-salvation, cynicism-as-wisdom, power-as-purpose—into chaff without wounding a single person.
“Fear not, for I am with you; be not frightened, for I am your God; I strengthen you and I help you; I uphold you with My victorious right hand” (41:10) is not a general reassurance; it is a commissioning. Radak explains that being chosen as “servant” means being tasked to illuminate the world’s moral grammar: “But you, Israel, My servant… I chose you… seed of Abraham My friend” (Radak, Perush al Yeshayahu 41:8). Malbim hears in “worm of Yaakov” a paradox of outward frailty met by Divine aid—HaShem pledges, “I will help you… your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel” (Malbim, Perush al Yeshayahu 41:14). Rambam traces the birth of idolatry to misdirected honor given to intermediaries rather than to the Source (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Avodat Kochavim 1:1). And where we fear we lack the moral stamina for such reorientation, he promises: “The Torah has promised that at the end of [our] exile, Israel will repent—and immediately they will be redeemed” (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah 7:5).
On the inner plane, the “threshing” is birur—the sifting that separates nourishment from husk. Tanya teaches that the purpose of creation is that HaShem “desired to have a dwelling in the lower worlds,” realized through our mitzvot that refine and elevate the sparks embedded in materiality (Tanya, Likkutei Amarim 36–37). Thus the vision of mountains ground to dust (41:15–16) becomes the quiet implosion of proud systems once their animating myths are exposed, freeing the good they contained to feed humanity.
Practically, one can live these verses by adopting a rhythm of hope that becomes a conduit for strength: begin the day with a small act of generosity that costs you something; set guardrails around speech so it becomes oxygen for others; learn a page or a paragraph of Torah that speaks to your next ethical decision; and at dusk, name one ideology you “threshed” today—perhaps the impulse to win an argument at the cost of truth—and one spark you rescued, such as a moment of sincere listening. In community, organize quiet courts of kindness—forums where disagreement is held with dignity so that ideas are tested without shaming people; in society, amplify policies that end predatory structures while elevating the image of God in every person—this is how mountains become chaff and those once poor in hope rejoice in HaShem (41:16).
We close where we began: Yaakov’s worry that his way is unseen. The prophet answers that our way is, in fact, the very path HaShem strides with us: “But those who put their hope in the LORD shall renew [their] vigor… they shall walk and not tire.” (40:31)