Vayelech
Why Bring the Children?
Hakhel and the Silent Power of Being There
Once every seven years, the Torah commands the Jewish people to gather for a national assembly known as Hakhel. During the festival of Sukkot that follows the Sabbatical (Shemitah) year, all of Israel—men, women, children, and even strangers—must make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem to hear the king publicly read the Torah.
This commandment is nestled in Parshat Vayelech, one of the final chapters of Moshe’s life. As his voice begins to fade and his mission nears completion, Moshe turns not inward, but outward. He doesn’t offer his legacy in private. Instead, he commands a public moment—an act of radical inclusion, of memory, and of reverence.
The verse says:
“Gather the people—men, women, children, and the strangers in your gates—that they may hear, and that they may learn, and revere the Lord your God, and observe faithfully every word of this Torah.”
(Devarim 31:12)
On a surface level, this seems simple: a mass religious rally of sorts. But the Midrash and commentators pick up on something curious in the wording—especially about the children.
Men, we’re told, come to learn.
Women come to hear.
But the children?
Rashi, quoting the Gemara in Chagigah (3a), says:
“Why do the children come? To give reward to those who bring them.”
At first glance, this feels like a soft pat on the head for tired parents. Bring your kids, you’ll get extra points. But this raises a serious question.
As the Maharal of Prague notes in his Gur Aryeh, this answer seems… underwhelming. Why assume the children can’t also learn? Are they just tag-alongs? Isn’t there a mitzvah to teach our children Torah from a young age? If they’re capable of learning at other times, why not now?
The Maharal answers powerfully: of course children are capable of learning Torah. And yes, there’s an obligation to teach them. But Hakhel is not a class. It’s not about structured education. It’s not a kids’ program with worksheets and snacks. Hakhel is a moment—one filled with awe, with grandeur, with spiritual electricity. It’s an event that shapes a person not through content, but through contact. Not by what they understand—but by what they witness.
Bringing children to Hakhel isn’t about what they learn. It’s about what they absorb.
And that absorption happens without words.
The Power of Presence
Let’s be honest: if you’ve ever brought a young child to shul, you’ve probably had moments where you questioned your sanity. Crumpled siddurim, spilled grape juice, loud questions during the Amidah. It can feel like more of a distraction than a spiritual experience. You wonder if it’s worth it. Wouldn’t it be more respectful to leave the kids at home? Wouldn’t God understand?
But the Torah is saying something deeper here: sometimes the holiest moments are the ones you don’t understand, but still show up for.
Think of it this way:
A child may not understand why their parents stand for the Amidah, but they’ll feel the solemnity in the room.
A child may not grasp the Hebrew of the Torah reading, but they’ll hear the chant, the rising and falling melody that generations before them have heard.
A child may not follow the sermon, but they’ll see the community gathered together in something bigger than themselves.
And one day, something will click. Something will stick. Maybe not today. Maybe not this year. But some day down the road, in a moment of crisis, or joy, or confusion—that image will come back. And it will mean something.
In Hakhel, children weren’t given a special children’s service or crafts corner. They stood among the people. Maybe squirming. Maybe on someone’s shoulders. Maybe bored. But they were there.
Presence has power.
Fear, Awe, and the Malbim’s Two Yiras
The Malbim adds another layer. He distinguishes between two types of reverence:
1. Yirat ha’onesh – fear of punishment.
2. Yirat haromemut – awe of God’s greatness.
The first is compliance-based. You do the right thing because you're afraid of consequences. It’s about rules, threats, boundaries.
The second is different. It’s about majesty. About recognizing that you are in the presence of something vast, something eternal. You stand in awe, not because you're scared, but because you're small—and that smallness doesn’t diminish you, it connects you to something greater.
When the Torah says, “that they may hear, and that they may learn, and fear God,” the Malbim says it's referring to this second kind of reverence—yirat haromemut. The kind that comes not just from knowing the laws, but from experiencing the grandeur. You don’t develop that awe by reading about it. You develop it by standing in it.
That’s why Hakhel is public. That’s why it’s dramatic. That’s why it includes everyone.
And that’s why even the children come.
Real Life: Why We Still Bring Them
We live in an age that deeply values efficiency. If something doesn’t have immediate results, we’re tempted to skip it. Parenting becomes outcome-focused. Education becomes standardized testing. Judaism becomes checking boxes. And we lose the slow, sacred work of planting seeds that may take decades to bloom.
I once watched a mother bring her five-year-old son to shul every Shabbat, even though he spent most of the time playing with plastic animals under the pews. One week, I gently asked, “Does he ever listen to the prayers?”
She laughed and said, “Not yet. But he’ll remember being here. He’ll remember it mattered.”
She was right.
Judaism is not just taught. It’s caught.
It’s in the smell of the challah.
The way your father whispered the Shema.
The tune your mother hummed while lighting candles.
The way your community sang together.
How they came to your family celebrations.
Children absorb all of it. And so do we.
That’s why we show up. Not because we always understand. Not because we always feel spiritual. But because showing up is the mitzvah.
The Reward of the One Who Brings
The Talmud’s phrase comes back into view:
“Why do the children come? To give reward to those who bring them.”
This isn’t just heavenly reward. The reward is in the act itself. It’s in having the courage to bring your children into a space that matters, even if they don’t yet grasp why. It’s in saying: “You belong here. This is yours. This is us.”
The reward is that they will know who they are.
In our age of identity crises and spiritual disconnection, that is no small reward.
Conclusion: Be There
Moshe Rabbeinu, in his final words, doesn’t offer his legacy in solitude. He calls the people together. He says: come stand together. Come remember. Bring the children. Bring the outsiders. Bring those who understand and those who don’t. Because Torah is not just a book you learn. It’s a life you enter.
Even if you don’t grasp every word.
Even if you’re distracted.
Even if you’re tired.
Even if your kids are fidgety.
Be there.
Because presence precedes understanding.
And sometimes the deepest truths are not taught with words, but through being there when the king reads the book of life, and the people listen, and the children—wide-eyed, confused, laughing, crying—are watching.
This commandment is nestled in Parshat Vayelech, one of the final chapters of Moshe’s life. As his voice begins to fade and his mission nears completion, Moshe turns not inward, but outward. He doesn’t offer his legacy in private. Instead, he commands a public moment—an act of radical inclusion, of memory, and of reverence.
The verse says:
“Gather the people—men, women, children, and the strangers in your gates—that they may hear, and that they may learn, and revere the Lord your God, and observe faithfully every word of this Torah.”
(Devarim 31:12)
On a surface level, this seems simple: a mass religious rally of sorts. But the Midrash and commentators pick up on something curious in the wording—especially about the children.
Men, we’re told, come to learn.
Women come to hear.
But the children?
Rashi, quoting the Gemara in Chagigah (3a), says:
“Why do the children come? To give reward to those who bring them.”
At first glance, this feels like a soft pat on the head for tired parents. Bring your kids, you’ll get extra points. But this raises a serious question.
As the Maharal of Prague notes in his Gur Aryeh, this answer seems… underwhelming. Why assume the children can’t also learn? Are they just tag-alongs? Isn’t there a mitzvah to teach our children Torah from a young age? If they’re capable of learning at other times, why not now?
The Maharal answers powerfully: of course children are capable of learning Torah. And yes, there’s an obligation to teach them. But Hakhel is not a class. It’s not about structured education. It’s not a kids’ program with worksheets and snacks. Hakhel is a moment—one filled with awe, with grandeur, with spiritual electricity. It’s an event that shapes a person not through content, but through contact. Not by what they understand—but by what they witness.
Bringing children to Hakhel isn’t about what they learn. It’s about what they absorb.
And that absorption happens without words.
The Power of Presence
Let’s be honest: if you’ve ever brought a young child to shul, you’ve probably had moments where you questioned your sanity. Crumpled siddurim, spilled grape juice, loud questions during the Amidah. It can feel like more of a distraction than a spiritual experience. You wonder if it’s worth it. Wouldn’t it be more respectful to leave the kids at home? Wouldn’t God understand?
But the Torah is saying something deeper here: sometimes the holiest moments are the ones you don’t understand, but still show up for.
Think of it this way:
A child may not understand why their parents stand for the Amidah, but they’ll feel the solemnity in the room.
A child may not grasp the Hebrew of the Torah reading, but they’ll hear the chant, the rising and falling melody that generations before them have heard.
A child may not follow the sermon, but they’ll see the community gathered together in something bigger than themselves.
And one day, something will click. Something will stick. Maybe not today. Maybe not this year. But some day down the road, in a moment of crisis, or joy, or confusion—that image will come back. And it will mean something.
In Hakhel, children weren’t given a special children’s service or crafts corner. They stood among the people. Maybe squirming. Maybe on someone’s shoulders. Maybe bored. But they were there.
Presence has power.
Fear, Awe, and the Malbim’s Two Yiras
The Malbim adds another layer. He distinguishes between two types of reverence:
1. Yirat ha’onesh – fear of punishment.
2. Yirat haromemut – awe of God’s greatness.
The first is compliance-based. You do the right thing because you're afraid of consequences. It’s about rules, threats, boundaries.
The second is different. It’s about majesty. About recognizing that you are in the presence of something vast, something eternal. You stand in awe, not because you're scared, but because you're small—and that smallness doesn’t diminish you, it connects you to something greater.
When the Torah says, “that they may hear, and that they may learn, and fear God,” the Malbim says it's referring to this second kind of reverence—yirat haromemut. The kind that comes not just from knowing the laws, but from experiencing the grandeur. You don’t develop that awe by reading about it. You develop it by standing in it.
That’s why Hakhel is public. That’s why it’s dramatic. That’s why it includes everyone.
And that’s why even the children come.
Real Life: Why We Still Bring Them
We live in an age that deeply values efficiency. If something doesn’t have immediate results, we’re tempted to skip it. Parenting becomes outcome-focused. Education becomes standardized testing. Judaism becomes checking boxes. And we lose the slow, sacred work of planting seeds that may take decades to bloom.
I once watched a mother bring her five-year-old son to shul every Shabbat, even though he spent most of the time playing with plastic animals under the pews. One week, I gently asked, “Does he ever listen to the prayers?”
She laughed and said, “Not yet. But he’ll remember being here. He’ll remember it mattered.”
She was right.
Judaism is not just taught. It’s caught.
It’s in the smell of the challah.
The way your father whispered the Shema.
The tune your mother hummed while lighting candles.
The way your community sang together.
How they came to your family celebrations.
Children absorb all of it. And so do we.
That’s why we show up. Not because we always understand. Not because we always feel spiritual. But because showing up is the mitzvah.
The Reward of the One Who Brings
The Talmud’s phrase comes back into view:
“Why do the children come? To give reward to those who bring them.”
This isn’t just heavenly reward. The reward is in the act itself. It’s in having the courage to bring your children into a space that matters, even if they don’t yet grasp why. It’s in saying: “You belong here. This is yours. This is us.”
The reward is that they will know who they are.
In our age of identity crises and spiritual disconnection, that is no small reward.
Conclusion: Be There
Moshe Rabbeinu, in his final words, doesn’t offer his legacy in solitude. He calls the people together. He says: come stand together. Come remember. Bring the children. Bring the outsiders. Bring those who understand and those who don’t. Because Torah is not just a book you learn. It’s a life you enter.
Even if you don’t grasp every word.
Even if you’re distracted.
Even if you’re tired.
Even if your kids are fidgety.
Be there.
Because presence precedes understanding.
And sometimes the deepest truths are not taught with words, but through being there when the king reads the book of life, and the people listen, and the children—wide-eyed, confused, laughing, crying—are watching.