In this episode of Breakfast & a Class, we explore the hidden poverty that
Chazal warn about—“אין עני אלא בדעת”—and uncover how the way we see ourselves shapes everything: our relationships, our growth, even our avodat Hashem. Through powerful stories and practical insight, this class will challenge you to rethink what it means to be “rich,” and why the greatest loss in life is not
what we lack—but what we fail to recognize within ourselves.  

Through Torah sources, Midrash, and powerful contemporary stories, we explore what it means to look at another person—and even at ourselves—not based on behavior, labels, or first impressions, but through the etsem, the inner truth that never changes. If redemption feels distant, this class offers a bold perspective: perhaps geulah begins when we learn to see the way Mashiaḥ sees.

In our class this morning, we endevor to uncover a powerful and often overlooked truth—thatredemption is not just about leaving a place, but about carrying an identity. 

 Through the story of Yosef, we discover the secret behind the splitting of the sea, the balance between Torah and action, and the foundation of what it means to remain a Jew in every environment. This is not just a story about the past—it is a blueprint for the present. Because without memory, there is no direction. And
without living what we believe, even Torah itself remains incomplete.  

As we move from bedikat chametz to biur chametz, the message sharpens. Pesach is not only about removing crumbs—it is about reclaiming authority over the self. Knowing where we’ve given away control. Deciding what no longer belongs. And having the courage to burn it. This episode is direct, practical, and deeply relevant—because real freedom begins the moment we take back the reins.

Most people read the Ten Plagues as punishments. That is true—but it is not the whole truth. The Torah itself says, “וּבְכָל־אֱלֹהֵי מִצְרַיִם אֶעֱשֶׂה שְׁפָטִים”—“Against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment.” This was not merely a contest between Moshe and Pharaoh, or even between Israel and Egypt. It was a direct assault on the entire Egyptian worldview. The Nile, the earth, the animals, the sky, the sun, even Pharaoh himself—everything Egypt trusted, feared, and worshipped was exposed, one plague at a time, as powerless before HaShem.

In this morning’s Breakfast & a Class, we examine the plagues not as random blows, but as a systematic war against illusion, idolatry, and false power. Each makah was a message. Each strike tore down another pillar of Egyptian belief and showed that what looked permanent, natural, and divine was nothing of the sort. And that is the deeper purpose of Yetziat Mitzrayim: not only to take the Jews out of Egypt, but to take Egypt out of the Jews. Because redemption is not complete when you leave the place of bondage. It is complete when you stop believing in the gods of the place that enslaved you.

In this class, we will uncover how the plagues were not only about freeing the Jewish people, but about re-educating the world. Drawing on the Ramban, Rav Hirsch, Rabbeinu Beḥaye, and others, we will see how each plague targeted a different aspect of nature—and a different illusion of human control. This is not just a story about Egypt. It is a framework for understanding reality itself: where we place our trust, what we think is stable, and how easily it can all be overturned. The question is not only what happened then—but what we still haven’t learned.

In this morning's class, we explore a powerful insight from Rabbi
Yissochar Frand: your greatest spiritual growth is not found in your strengths,
but in your struggles. Through the stories of Rabbi Amram Ḥasida, Yosef
HaTzaddik, and Reish Lakish, we uncover a deeper truth—HaShem does not ask us to become someone else. He asks us to take the very traits that could lead us
astray and elevate them into avodat HaShem. Not avoiding the fire—but learning
how to direct it. Not eliminating the yetzer—but guarding it, shaping it, and
turning it into something holy. 

 In the middle of everything—sirens, uncertainty, a world that feels anything but
calm—my grandchildren sat in a yishuv and made matzah. Just flour, water, and a
clock. And watching them, it hit me: nothing dramatic is happening in that
moment. No miracles. No splitting seas. Just a quiet race against time. Because
from the second the water touches the flour, something begins. And if you wait
too long… it changes. 

  This morning’s class is about that space—the space between inspiration and action, between “I should” and “I did.” Chazal teach us that a mitzvah can become chametz, not by rejecting it, but by delaying it. And that may be the most dangerous place in our lives. Not the moments we fail—but the moments we hesitate. Because sometimes, later… is where everything is lost. 

This is not a history lesson. It is a call to movement. A call to stop explaining redemption and start living it. As we approach Leil Pesaḥ, this episode challenges each of us to ask the one question the night is truly asking: what still owns me? And more importantly—what would be my first step into the sea? Honest, direct, and deeply relevant, this is a conversation about fear, identity, and the quiet courage it takes to begin again.

In this morning’s breakfast and a class, we unpack that question layer by layer—from the Gemara, Tosafot, Maharal, and Mesillat Yesharim, to a powerful insight from the Sefat Emet. Along the way, we confront a difficult truth: not every fire is holy, even when it burns with passion. The difference between a moment of inspiration and a life of meaning comes down to one word Tzav—צַו. This is a class about discipline, about identity, and about what it really means to serve HaShem… even when you don’t feel it.  

Through the imagery of the Mizbe’aḥ burning through the
night, the teaching of Chazal about a heavenly fire that still requires human
effort, and the sharp warning about a fire that can become self-serving, with
the help of the Keli Yakar, Rav Kook and the Gemara, we uncover a truth that is
as demanding as it is liberating. The greatest avodah is not the fire that
draws attention — but the one that survives when no one is watching. A great
way to begin the week with a class about humility, about consistency, and about
the kind of inner fire that belongs not to the self… but to HaShem. 

In this morning’s class, we take a closer look at Vehi
She’amda and uncover a pattern that runs from Tanach to today’s headlines.
Again and again, those who rise against us fail to unite. What appears to be a
threat becomes fractured. What should be overwhelming never fully comes
together. And in that division lies one of the most consistent — and least
noticed — miracles of Jewish history. 

Drawing from the sefer *שפתי חן* of Rabbi Shmuel Krois and teachings rooted in the Zohar and the Arizal, we will follow the thread of this mysterious prayer and discover why it speaks about souls standing in rows, why it appears immediately after the offerings of the tribal princes, and how the month of Nissan marks a moment when the spiritual architecture of the world begins to awaken again. What looks like a small page in the Siddur turns out to be a doorway into one of the most remarkable ideas in our tradition — that heaven and earth begin to move together again each spring.

Nissan - Direct Connect - When the Heavens Rejoice and the Earth Answers

In this morning’s breakfast and a class, inspired by a teaching often shared by Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל, we explore the insight of the Baal HaTurim, the humility of Moshe, and what that small aleph reveals about one of the greatest spiritual struggles we face: the expanding “I.” Through Torah sources, stories from Chazal, and a remarkable contemporary story, we discover how shrinking the ego allows us to hear the voice of Hashem more clearly. Sometimes the greatest spiritual achievement is not becoming bigger — but learning to make the aleph small.

In this class we explore how Moshe reorganized the camp step by step—through gathering, discipline, boundaries, generosity, and holy order—transforming a nation that had collapsed into chaos into a people worthy of divine presence. Drawing on the Zohar, the Or HaḤayim, Midrash, and Talmud, we uncover how the Mishkan became not just a building but a repair of creation itself. The lesson is as relevant today as it was in the desert: holiness does not return through inspiration alone. It returns through structure, responsibility, and the rebuilding of a camp—and a life—where the Shekhinah can dwell.

Through the lens of Torah, Hazal, and Jewish history, this morning’s class asks the
deeper question: What is Israel ultimately meant to become? Drawing on sources
from Bil‘am’s prophecy of the rising lion, the midnight harp of David HaMelekh,
the silence of Ḥizkiyahu after his miraculous salvation, and the timeless
vision of the prophets, we explore the possibility that the Jewish people are
being pushed toward their true mission — not merely to survive or to wield
power, but to become a beacon of Torah, faith, and blessing for the entire
world. The lion has awakened again — but the real question of our generation is
what kind of lion it will become.

 

In the aftermath of the sin of the Golden Calf, the nation of Israel carried more than guilt for idolatry. According to the Midrash, they also carried the terrible burden of having murdered Ḥur — the man who stood up and tried to stop them. Yet only a short time later, when the Mishkan is finally built, Moshe introduces its master builder with a striking genealogy: “בְּצַלְאֵל בֶּן־אוּרִי בֶן־חוּר.” Why does the Torah insist on reminding us who his grandfather was? The Arizal, cited by the Shvilei Pinchas, reveals a breathtaking answer: HaShem deliberately chose the grandson of the man they killed to build His sanctuary. In doing so, He showed the nation that the very place of accusation could become the place of healing — that the prosecutor himself had become the advocate.

In this morning's breakfast and a class we explore the extraordinary spiritual chain that runs from Miriam to Ḥur to Betzalel — a family whose defining trait was the courage to stand for truth even when success seemed impossible. From Miriam challenging the leader of the generation, to Ḥur confronting a violent mob, to Betzalel building the Mishkan with divine wisdom, the Torah teaches that redemption is often born from the very wounds of failure. The Mishkan was not only a structure of gold and wood — it was the transformation of guilt into repair, and the proof that when one generation stands for what is right, another generation may be chosen to rebuild the world.

Why does the Gemara instruct us to begin studying the laws of Pesach exactly thirty days before the festival—a date that lands precisely on Purim? Is this merely practical preparation, or is something deeper unfolding within the Jewish
calendar?  

 Drawing on a remarkable teaching of רבי צבי אלימלך מדינוב, the בני יששכר, this morning\'s breakfast and a class reveals that the thirty days between Purim and Pesach contain exactly 720 hours—corresponding to three spiritual battles against עמלק, whose numerical value equals 240. These days form a hidden campaign fought in the realms of thought, speech, and action, a struggle against doubt, cynicism, and spiritual cooling. Purim quietly begins the battle; Pesach reveals the victory. 

 From Midrashic parables about Amalek “cooling the boiling bath,” to the Zohar’s
insight into the deeper meaning of חמץ, and even to the way history itself
unfolds in hidden chains of events—much like the story of Megillat Esther—this
class explores how the war against Amalek continues in every generation. Only
in hindsight do we begin to see the Divine hand guiding events. The question is
whether we can recognize the pattern while we are living through it.  

The Megillah has been read. The noise has faded. Now what?

In this powerful Purim morning class, we step beyond the costumes and the wine and ask the uncomfortable question: why do so many of us experience Purim — and remain exactly the same? Drawing from Ḥazal, the Ramban, the Rambam, and the living fire of Rav Shalom Arush’s teaching of radical “todah,” this episode lays out a clear, demanding path for how to live one Purim day that actually shifts something inside you.

From uprooting “mikreh” and training your eye to see hashgaḥah, to turning the Megillah into personal Hallel, to using Purim as a 24-hour open gate for tefillah, to drinking like a Jew and not like a Persian — this is not inspiration for children. It is a serious avodah plan for adults who want their Purim to matter.

If you have ever felt that Purim comes and goes too quickly, this conversation will show you how to make one day echo for a lifetime.

 There was no breakfast this morning, but maybe we gained a touch of clarity. 

 On the thirteenth of Adar — what Ḥazal call yom ha-nikhalim — the Jews of Shushan faced a strange and terrifying reality: they had royal “permission” to defend themselves, but the original decree to annihilate them still stood in every
archive of the empire. Two edicts. One promising their destruction. One allowing them to assemble and stand for their lives. The question was simple and brutal: Would they live as a people who merely survive on paper, or as a nation willing to act? 

In this class we explore the tension inside Megillat Esther that has echoed through Jewish history ever since — from Shushan to the modern State of Israel.
What does the Torah really mean when it says, “If someone comes to kill you,
rise early to kill him first”? Is pre-emption aggression — or halachic necessity? And when the world says, “You have a right to defend yourself,” who actually grants that permission? This is not a comfortable conversation. It is, however, a necessary one.  

Today, as news reports speak of strikes, strategy,
collapsing threats, and shifting power in the modern Persian arena — with
Tehran once again in the center of world attention — the parallels are
difficult to ignore. “Hester Panim in Tehran — Purim in Real Time” is not about
politics. It is about perspective. It is about learning how to read events the
way Mordechai read them — listening for the pasuk beneath the noise. Even when
HaShem’s face appears hidden, His hand is steady. And our job is not merely to
react to headlines, but to recognize the deeper Script being written through
them.  

But Purim is not only about seeing — it is about stepping forward. Through two unforgettable real-life stories — one of mesirut nefesh that shaped generations, and another of breathtaking precision involving a simple Shabbat muffin — we confront the deeper message of the day: the strings of history are already in place, but they move when we do. Hashgachah is real. Participation is required.

And from there, we cross into Purim. Haman saw only Moshe’s death in Adar — he calculated the end but missed the beginning. The Megillah hides Hashem’s Name just as Tetzaveh hides Moshe’s. In both, absence becomes presence. In both, what vanishes on the surface becomes more powerful at the core. This is not merely a literary pattern — it is the secret of Jewish endurance. When the name disappears, the light remains.

In a year when headlines from the Middle East carry talk of missiles, drones, intelligence operations, and existential threats, Jews from Jerusalem to Hoboken find themselves asking a startling question: Is history repeating itself? When Iran’s leadership openly talks about eliminating the State of Israel and its nuclear ambitions loom over the region, ancient texts like Megillat Esther begin to feel eerily relevant. Iran has a history of public hostility toward Israel, including repeated threats of annihilation and sustained military pressure that has, at times, erupted in direct missile barrages on Israeli cities and institutions this past year. Israeli forces have responded with retaliatory strikes on Iranian and allied targets, illustrating the broader, turbulent dynamics between the two nations—dynamics that many have likened to a modern-day Shushan under threat.  

And yet, Purim is not simply ancient history, nor is it merely a metaphor; it frames how Jews have understood the survival of Am Yisrael for millennia. Megillat Esther is the paradigmatic story of a people threatened with annihilation, of kings and fanatics, of hidden heroes, and of a hidden Director orchestrating the outcome from beyond the stage. In this class we will step beyond surface comparisons and explore how Torah sources illuminate our moment—not as pundits but as Jews reading history through the lens of HaShem’s providence. We will ask not only who in the current drama resembles Achashverosh, Mordekhai, Haman, or Esther, but why the pattern matters for our faith, our strategy, and our prayers today.

Why does the
Torah spend so many words describing Achashverosh’s 187-day party — the marble
floors, the gold goblets, the purple cords — and then, in the very same weeks
of the year, devote equally obsessive detail to the Mishkan? Because both are
teaching us something about intensity. One palace is built for spectacle and
ego. The other is built for Presence. And at the very center of the Mishkan,
hammered from the same piece of gold as the Aron itself, stand two Keruvim —
childlike faces, wings stretched upward. Not glued on. Not decorative. One
piece. The message is radical: Judaism is not something we attach to our
children later. It must be what they are made of. 

In this recording
based on our Seudah Shelishi shiur, we explore what the Keruvim are really
saying about chinuch, identity, and raising children in an open world. Do we
protect or prepare? Insulate or expose? The Torah refuses that false choice.
When Torah is organic — when it is hammered into the gold of the soul — wings
are not dangerous; they elevate. Drawing from Terumah, Tetzaveh, and Megillat
Esther, we will ask how to build homes that are Mishkan, not Shushan — and how
to raise children whose Judaism is not glued on, but grown from within.  

From there we go back to Har Sinai and the pasuk most people read right past: “כֹּה תֹאמַר לְבֵית יַעֲקֹב” — speak first to the women. Rashi and Chazal explain why: because if the women are in, Torah lives in the next generation; if not, it doesn’t. This is a class about the architecture of Jewish continuity — built quietly, stubbornly, and faithfully, through the emunah and middot of nashim tzidkaniyot.

*Rosh Ḥodesh Adar and the Hidden Joy of ה–ה–י–ו*

When Chazal teach, “מִשֶּׁנִּכְנַס אֲדָר מַרְבִּין בְּשִׂמְחָה” (Taanit 29a), they are not instructing us to manufacture cheerfulness or drown reality in noise. Adar’s mazal is דַּגִּים — fish — life that moves beneath the surface, protected from the evil eye, growing quietly under the water. Purim itself unfolds this way: no open miracles, no explicit Divine Name, only the steady unfolding of a hidden script. The joy of Adar is not naïveté; it is the confidence that even when events appear chaotic, a deeper current is carrying the story exactly where it must go.

This episode explores the spiritual architecture of the month — from Yosef’s blessing of “וְיִדְגּוּ לָרֹב,” to Esther’s world of “הַסְתֵּר אַסְתִּיר,” to the mysterious tziruf ה–ה–י–ו drawn from Ya‘aqov’s berakhah in Book of Genesis. We examine how Adar teaches us to rejoice before the reversal, to recognize birth hidden within apparent endings, and to plant emunah even when fruit is not yet visible. This is not the joy of denial. It is the discipline of seeing beneath the surface — and trusting the turn before it arrives.

The Torah does not deny struggle—it redefines how we respond to it. “Because you were strangers in Egypt” is not a license to toughen others up; it is a command to soften. Through powerful stories and Chazal’s piercing insights, this class confronts a dangerous trap: turning our own suffering into a measuring stick for others. If you’ve ever thought, “I had it harder—so why can’t they handle this?” this shiur asks you to pause, rethink, and transform your past pain into empathy rather than judgment. This is not a feel-good message—it’s a demanding one. And it may change how you look at the people closest to you.

In this mornings class, we contrast the modern prison system — built around deterrence and incapacitation — with the Torah’s deeply counterintuitive approach to rehabilitation. Drawing on Chazal, Ramban, and a penetrating insight from Rav Frand, we explore how dignity, responsibility, emotional attachment, and even carefully measured pain are used not to crush the sinner, but to awaken conscience and restore sensitivity. Mishpatim becomes a laboratory for moral repair, challenging us to rethink punishment, ownership, and what it truly means to take something that belongs to another person.

This morning’s class weaves the Zohar’s teachings on gilgul neshamot together with a powerful true story from the world of Telz and London, as told by Rabbi Hanoch Teller. It is a story of misunderstandings carried for decades, of grievances left unresolved, and of how Heaven orchestrates encounters so that accounts can finally be closed. The message is both sobering and hopeful: what we fail to repair may follow us — but what we choose to repair now can change everything.

The class weaves together classical sources, a vivid Hasidic story about Rav Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, and a living contemporary example: a group of women who have been learning Torah together every morning for six straight years, culminating in a recent siyum. At its heart, this episode is about the courage to show up daily, the role of simcha in sustaining spiritual growth, and the quiet power of being “all in.” Not touching the edge—but climbing the mountain.

Through Yitro’s arrival, the repair of Kayin and Hevel begins, emunah finds its final home after the splitting of the sea, and techiyat ha-metim emerges not only as an end-of-days belief, but as a way a Jew is meant to live every morning. This is a class about hearing and moving, healing old fractures, and living with gratitude for life returned. Join us for a thoughtful, source-based journey that reframes Sinai—and our own lives—through the lens of repair, humility, and resurrection.

From Moshe’s forty days without food or water, to Rashi’s sharp critique in Parashat Devarim, to the quiet heroism of boys who stay in shul before and after tefillah pushing themselves to learn, and women waking early each morning to study together on the phone, this shiur explores what truly creates Torah greatness. Not genius, but effort. Not talent, but shvitz. In a world of comfort and convenience, Yitro comes before Sinai to remind us: Torah is not inherited by the smartest in the room — it is earned by those who show up, struggle explains, and refuse to walk away.

From Pharaoh’s palace to the Black Sea in 1942, this shiur traces the unbroken line of antisemitism through history — from Amalek in the desert to the tragedy of the Struma — and asks what it means to hear HaShem’s message in a world of both miracles and massacres. Yitro teaches us that faith is not built by wonders alone, but by choosing to listen, to move, and to live among people who refuse to be cooled by hatred. The question this class leaves us with is deeply personal: in the face of history’s cold splash, are we Amalek-Jews or Yitro-Jews?

In this morning’s class we looked at a small nuance in the opening pesukim of Parashat Yitro that changes the whole way we see Yitro, Amalek, and even our own lives. Why does the Torah say that Yitro heard “all that Elokim did for Moshe and for Israel,” but then in the very same pasuk switch to “for HaShem took Israel out of Egypt”? Why are Yitro’s korbanot described as “to Elokim,” when almost everywhere else in the Torah korbanot are tied to Shem Havaya? From there we traced Yitro’s journey: how he sees midah keneged midah at Yam Suf, how he understands the frightening precision of din in Moshe’s life, and how, as a gilgul of Kayin who once said “ein din ve’ein dayan,” he comes back into the world specifically to fix that mistake by declaring “atah yadati” and helping Moshe build a system of justice “lifnei haElokim.”

We then asked: if Yitro is so moved by Divine justice, why is the war with Amalek the final piece that pushes him to convert? The answer takes us into the tension between a world where HaShem can drown Egypt in a moment, and a world where Amalek still walks around attacking the weak and “cooling off” emunah. We spoke about Rabbi Akiva’s mashal of wheat and bread, the unfinished world that needs human partners, and the quiet places where Shekhinah rests — at a simple table “lifnei haElokim,” where people choose justice, chesed, and responsibility. The class closes with three very practical “Yitro moves” for the week: learning to see din in our own lives, accepting that HaShem’s expectations of us change as we grow, and stepping up as partners in a world that He deliberately left unfinished.

In Parashat Beshalach, the Torah describes bitter water that could not be drunk—until Moshe is shown an eitz, a piece of wood, and casts it into the water. Chazal teach that mayim is Torah. The Chatam Sofer explains that Torah can exist, and yet feel bitter, when it is not upheld, supported, and entered into by those around it. Drawing on the teachings of the Chatam Sofer, Rabbi Asher Weiss, and lived experiences—from a crowded synagogue to clandestine Torah learning under Soviet oppression—this class explores a demanding truth: Torah cannot survive on learning alone. It needs people willing to make space for it, even when there is none.

In this morning’s breakfast and a class, we explore the Ma’an as a timeless lesson in bitachon, and how it shapes our relationship to work, worry, and Shabbat. Woven into the discussion is a personal reflection inspired by my father, whose yahrzeit falls this week, and who constantly reminded us not to live burdened by tomorrow’s fears. The Ma’an teaches us that faith is not theoretical—it is lived daily, quietly, and faithfully. Not by knowing what will be, but by trusting Who is taking care of us now.

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If you’d like, I can tighten it further for Apple Podcasts length, or soften it slightly for a broader audience—without diluting the message.

Interwoven with this Torah insight is a deeply personal story spanning 57 years — a blessing given quietly by a grandmother, remembered decades later by the man whose life she changed, and returned to her grandson months after her passing. Together with a reflection on the yahrzeit of Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל, whose defining gift was instilling confidence and calm, this class reveals a timeless truth: the greatest legacy we leave behind is not what we give, but what others remember carrying because of us.

In this class, we explore a powerful teaching drawn from
the Zohar, the Rambam, and timeless stories from Chazal: that the very
obstacles that frighten us are often the clearest sign that HaShem is present
and active. Pharaohs in our lives — external and internal — are not random, and
they are not the source of their own power. They are part of a Divine setup
meant not to stop us, but to shape us. This is not a class about escaping
difficulty. It’s about learning how to stand inside it without losing faith,
clarity, or purpose — and discovering who we are meant to become because of it.  

This shiur explores the final plagues of Egypt as one unfolding movement of darkness and redemption, the power of midnight as a turning point in history, and what it means to live with inner light during uncertain times. Through Torah, Chazal, and lived experience, we discover how the Jewish people have always learned to carry light — even when the world around them grows dark

At the center of this class is a striking phrase from the Torah: “Vehaya Hu” — “It remains what it is.” From this pasuq emerges the seruf of Shevat, ה־י־ו־ה, not as mysticism but as mental stability. We trace this idea from Vayiqra to the story of Noaḥ, showing how belief without settlement delays redemption, and why holiness cannot rest on a mind that constantly revises itself. This is a month about leaving “draft mode” behind—and learning how to stay.

From Egypt and Bavel to Shanghai, 1967, and a quiet
synagogue in Ashdod at 2:30 a.m., our talk traces how world events — massive
and small — unfold not by coincidence, but by design. Sometimes history turns
to awaken a nation. Sometimes it turns for a single soul. This is a
Shabbat-born, discussion based reflection on why the Torah teaches that the
entire world can move for one moment, one choice, and one person — and what
that demands of us.  

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Today’s shiur is לְעִילּוּי נִשְׁמַת שַׁעְיָא אַבִּיטָן ע״ה, four years since his פְטִירָה.

Last night we stood together with the family as they brought a new Sefer Torah into the world. Not just any Torah — a tiny, magnificent scroll, about six and three-quarter inches high. Exquisite כתיבה, a jewel of a Torah. You almost feel you should pick it up with two fingers and whisper.

It reminded me of that שַׁס piece: the king has a special Sefer Torah that “goes in and out with him,” on his arm, wherever he goes — not in the Aron, but on the body. “וְהָיְתָה עִמּוֹ וְקָרָא בוֹ כׇּּל יְמֵי חַיָּיו” (דברים י״ז:י״ט), and ḥazal say: “כְּשֶׁיּוֹצֵא – מַכְנִיסָה עִמּוֹ, כְּשֶׁנִּכְנָס – מוֹצִיאָה עִמּוֹ.” 

You look at Ariel’s little Sefer Torah and you think: maybe this is what that royal Sefer Torah looked like — something small enough to bind to the arm, close enough the hat a king never forgets Who is really in charge.

And then, standing there, I saw an old friend I haven’t seen in decades — Michael Safdie, who now has a podcast on בִּטָּחוֹן בַּה׳. And he spoke about how your father, Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל, changed his life, about learning with your brother Victor, about how the Rav always carried a sefer, always spoke about bitachon and hoda’ah — appreciation, הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב.

The Rav used to say: “מוֹדֶה doesn’t only mean ‘I thank you.’ It also means, ‘I admit I needed you.’”

That’s our topic this morning. In Parashat וָאֵרָא, HaShem brings the first plagues on Egypt, but hidden inside the makkot is a quiet, royal-sized Sefer Torah on the arm: the Torah of הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב — gratitude — and how it builds real בִּטָּחוֹן.

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Act I – When Even Water Gets a “Thank You”

We’ll start simple. The Chumash tells us:

“וַיֹּאמֶר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה, אֱמֹר אֶל־אַהֲרֹן: קַח מַטְּךָ וּנְטֵה יָדְךָ עַל־מֵימֵי מִצְרַיִם… וְהָיוּ דָם” (שְׁמוֹת ז׳:י״ט).

HaShem tells Moshe what to do — but the one who actually hits the water is Aharon.

Rashi says why:

“אֱמֹר אֶל אַהֲרֹן… לְפִי שֶׁהֵגֵן הַיְאוֹר עַל מֹשֶׁה כְּשֶׁנִּשְׁלַךְ לְתוֹכוֹ, לְפִיכָךְ לֹא לָקָה עַל יָדוֹ לֹא בַּדָּם וְלֹא בַצְפַרְדְּעִים…” 

The Nile saved Moshe as a baby — therefore Moshe can’t be the one to strike it.

Same with the third plague:

“נְטֵה אֶת מַטְּךָ וְהַךְ אֶת עֲפַר הָאָרֶץ… וַיְהִי הַכֵּן” (שְׁמוֹת ח׳:י״ב–י״ג).

Again, Rashi: Aharon, not Moshe, hits the dust — because the earth once hid the Egyptian whom Moshe was forced to kill to save a Jew. 

And the Gemara crystallizes the rule with a sharp folk saying:

“בְּאֵרָא דְּשָׁתִית מִינֵּיהּ מַיָּא – לָא תִשְׁדֵּי בֵּיהּ כֵּיפָא.”

“A well from which you drank water — don’t throw a stone into it.” (בָּבָא קַמָּא 92b) 

Now, the simple Musa r is one we’ve all heard: if Moshe Rabbeinu owes gratitude to water and dirt, how much more so to a human being who has helped us.

But Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky asks a tougher question. He quotes this same Rashi and then says: one second — isn’t it a great honor for the water and the dust to be the vehicle of HaShem’s open miracles? Wouldn’t it be a spiritual elevation for the Nile to scream out “there is no god but HaShem” in bright red blood? So why is hitting the Nile called a lack of gratitude? Wouldn’t that be the best “thank you” you could give to water and dust? 

He brings, in the name of Rabbi Nosson Shapira of Krakow (1585–1633), a story – preserved in later collections – about a pious widow in the Krakow market who sold bagels while reciting Tehillim. A wealthy man offered to support her so she could sit and learn and pray all day. Beautiful. She accepts.

But after a month she returns all the money. Why?

Because when she left the bagel stand, she lost her constant hakarat ha-tov. She says: when it rained, I thanked HaShem for the farmers. When the sun shone, I thanked Him again. When I sifted flour, when the dough rose, when the bagels baked golden, when each customer came… my whole day was “todah, todah, todah.” Now I sit at home with no bagels — and I barely remember to say thank You. This “kollel” is killing my gratitude. I want my bagels back. 

Rabbi Kamenetzky explains: Moshe lived with that kind of awareness. Every time he saw the Nile, every time his foot stepped on Egyptian soil, he reminded himself: HaShem used you to save my life. Those inanimate things became his daily triggers for gratitude.

If Moshe would turn the Nile to blood, or the dust to lice, yes, it would be a national miracle — but he would lose his personal reminder, his private “thank You” points. And Moshe Rabbeinu is not willing to pay that price.

So Aharon does the public miracle, and Moshe keeps the quiet daily Sefer Torah of gratitude on his arm.

And that already speaks to today. On a yahrzeit, there are “big miracles” — the speeches, the Torah, the dedication. But there are also the tiny, daily memories of Shaya — a word he said, a smile, a Friday night at the table — that are supposed to become our “bagels,” our daily reminders to say, “Todah, Hashem, she-zakhinu.”

Current word count: ~600 words

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Act II – Gratitude vs. Ego: From Pharaoh to the Bathhouse

Rabbi Naftali Reich, in an essay this very week called “Thanking the River,” points out something subtle. Why are people so allergic to saying “thank you”? It’s not because we’re not polite. It’s because “thank you” also means: I am not self-sufficient. I needed you. I owe you. And the ego doesn’t like being “in debt.” 

That’s why the Hebrew word הוֹדָאָה is so deep.

• “מוֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ” — I thank You.

• “מוֹדֶה עַל הָאֱמֶת” — I admit the truth.

Same shoresh. Gratitude and confession are the same spiritual muscle. To have הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב you have to admit: I am not the whole story.

Rabbeinu Baḥye, on “וַיָּקָם מֶלֶךְ חָדָשׁ… אֲשֶׁר לֹא יָדַע אֶת יוֹסֵף” (שְׁמוֹת א׳:ח׳), brings a Midrash that connects this straight to emunah:

“כׇּל הַכּוֹפֵר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל חֲבֵרוֹ, סוֹפוֹ שֶׁיִּכְפּוֹר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל הַקָּבָּ״ה.”

Whoever denies the good of his friend will, in the end, deny the good of HaKadosh Barukh Hu. 

First Pharaoh “doesn’t know” Yosef — wipes out the gratitude for the man who saved Egypt. A few psukim later he says: “לֹא יָדַעְתִּי אֶת ה׳” (שְׁמוֹת ה׳:ב׳) — I don’t know HaShem either.

Once a person trains himself never to say “thank you,” he won’t say it to people — and he won’t say it to G-d.

Rav Yaakov Yitzchak Ruderman זצ״ל (Rosh Yeshiva, Ner Yisroel), in Sichot HaLevi on Va’era, pushes it further. He quotes a remarkable story recorded in the Shitah Mekubetzet to Bava Kamma 92b about Rabbeinu Yitzḥak Alfasi, the Rif. 

The Rif refused to judge a din Torah about the local bathhouse. Why? Because he used that bathhouse. He felt he owed it הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב — and therefore he would not risk “hurting” it by ruling that it should be closed or sold.

You hear that? Gratitude to a building. To hot water and steam.

Rav Ruderman says: from here you see that הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב is not a nice extra; it is one of the foundations of עֲבוֹדַת ה׳. If a person cannot admit that he receives — from people, from objects, from the very earth under his feet — how will he ever bend his head and say: “מֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ מֶלֶךְ חַי וְקַיָּם”?

This is exactly what we were talking about last night with Michael and with Abi Abittan. Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל lived a life of hoda’ah. He didn’t just teach bitachon as “Hashem will take care of me.” He taught that the way you train yourself in bitachon is by practicing, constantly, “I am not self-made. I receive. I depend.”

You see an older man in a wheelchair in shul — you think, “I should sit and learn with him,” or “I should call him Motza’ei Shabbat.” The moment you act on that is the moment you’re admitting: my time is not only mine; my koach is borrowed from HaShem; my life is entangled with other Jews. That’s hoda’ah; that’s bitachon.

So in Act I we saw Moshe refusing to strike water and dust. In Act II, we see that going one level deeper: if you train yourself to see every gift — from your shower to your breakfast — as something that obligates you, you are slowly crushing the yetzer that says, “I did this. I deserve this. I am owed this.”

And that’s how a person becomes a ba’al bitachon. Not by slogans, but by thousands of small “todahs.”

Current word count: ~1,200 words

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Act III – From Inanimate Objects to Living Souls

Now let’s bring it closer to our lives, and to this morning’s yahrzeit.

Rabbi Reich, in that same piece, tells a simple, modern mashal. A great sage is eating in a hotel with a young talmid. The Rav says, “The owner of this hotel is such a fine person. Look at the meal he prepared for us, the service…”

The student pushes back: “Rebbi, come on. He’s getting paid. He’s making a tidy profit. Why should I feel grateful?”

And the Rav answers: that is exactly the sickness. You are working so hard to avoid gratitude — to find every reason not to feel obligated, not to feel you owe someone thanks. But who loses? The owner still gets his money. You lose the chance to become a better person. Recognizing the good in others, even when they “had to” do it, makes you bigger. 

That’s the same point Rabbi Yissocher Frand makes from our parashah. The Nile didn’t do anything “heroic” for Moshe. It was just being water. Objects have no beḥirah, no merit. But הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב is not measured by the giver’s effort; it is measured by the receiver’s gain. Since Moshe’s life was preserved through that water, he is obligated in gratitude — even to a river following the rules of physics. 

And Rabbeinu Baḥye adds: that’s why the Torah later says, “לֹא תְּתַעֵב מִצְרִי, כִּי־גֵר הָיִיתָ בְאַרְצוֹ” — “Do not despise an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land” (דברים כ״ג:ח׳). Even after everything Egypt did to us — the slavery, the bricks, the blood — the Torah still says: there was a moment, at the beginning, when you needed a place to go and they took you in. Never erase that from your memory. 

“כׇּל הַכּוֹפֵר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל חֲבֵרוֹ, סוֹפוֹ שֶׁיִּכְפּוֹר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל הַמָּקוֹם.” The person who deletes that early chapter will, sooner or later, delete HaShem from his story as well. 

So what does that mean for us, sitting here with coffee and a class on a weekday morning, on Shaya’s yahrzeit?

It means that today is not only a day to remember what we lost; it is a day to remember — very concretely — what we received.

• To say: HaShem, thank You that we had Shaya for the years that we did.

• Thank You for the sefarim he learned from, for the shiurim his father gave, for the family that continues his Torah.

• Thank You for the old friends who still show up — the Michaels of the world, who resurface after forty years and remind us that a word of Torah, a smile, a quiet act of kindness, can echo for decades.

And it’s also more personal, more immediate.

Who are the “Niles” and “dust” in your life right now — the inanimate things, the routine things, that are constantly saving you, constantly holding you up?

• The car that somehow still runs.

• The phone that lets you call or text children and grandchildren around the world.

• The shul that opens its doors every single day, whether ten people show up or a hundred.

And then: who are the people?

• The spouse who quietly picks up the slack so you can run to a minyan.

• The child who phones just to check in.

• The congregant who shows up with a smile and a “Rabbi, how are you doing?”

• The older gentleman in the wheelchair who texts, “Rabbi, when can we learn?”

To live with הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב means not only to feel bad that we can’t give everyone all the time we wish we could — but to actually say the words:

“I am so grateful you reached out. Even when I can’t do everything, it means a lot.

We are learning together — through the newsletter, through the podcast, through every word of Torah we share.”

That’s not a line. That’s hoda’ah. That’s admitting: I am not a self-contained universe. I am tied, through thousands of cords of kindness, to HaShem and to His people.

Current word count: ~1,750 words

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Closing – A Small Sefer Torah on the Arm

Let’s bring it back to that little Sefer Torah from last night.

The king’s Torah that he carries “בְּזְרוֹעוֹ” is small in size but huge in impact. Chazal say it goes out with him to war, it sits with him at the table — it is there in the exact places where a person is most likely to forget HaShem. 

הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב is that kind of Sefer Torah.

• When you say “todah” to water and dust — you are writing a tiny letter of Torah into your character.

• When you say “todah” to a spouse, a friend, a rebbe, a community — you are writing another letter.

• When you say “todah” to HaShem — for health, for children, for another day of life, even when it’s not easy — you are binding a whole Sefer Torah to your arm.

Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל taught — and Shaya reflected — that the test of our generation is bitachon. But bitachon is not just “trusting that it will all work out.” Bitachon is living every day with the sentence:

“Everything I have is a gift. I am standing on water that saved me, on dust that hid me, on people who carried me.”

And when you live that way, you can walk into very dark places and still say: “מוֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ… שֶׁהֶחֱזַרְתָּ בִּי נִשְׁמָתִי בְּחֶמְלָה, רַבָּה אֱמוּנָתֶךָ.”

Takeaway – Today’s Avodah

Let’s make it practical — one small Sefer Torah we can all “wrap” on our arm today, לְעִילּוּי נִשְׁמַת שַׁעְיָא אַבִּיטָן ע״ה:

1. Three “todahs” to people.

Before sunset today, choose three people — in your home, in shul, at work — and say an explicit “thank you” for something concrete:

• “Thank you for always setting up my coffee before I leave.”

• “Thank you for the ride you gave me last week — I didn’t say it properly.”

• “Thank you for your text; it meant more than you know.”

2. One slow “Modeh Ani.”

Tomorrow morning, say Modeh Ani just a little slower. Pause on the word “מוֹדֶה.” Hear both meanings: I thank You, I admit I need You.

3. One memory of Shaya or his father that becomes a trigger.

Pick one small thing about Shaya — a midah, a smile, a pasuk he loved — and decide: every time I remember this, I will use it as my “bagel,” my reminder to say:

“Ribono shel Olam, thank You for putting him in our lives. Help me to live with that same הוֹדָאָה and הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב.”

If we do that, then that little Sefer Torah from last night is not just sitting in the Aron. It’s sitting on our arms, inside our hearts. And that is the greatest zechut we can give a neshamah on its yahrzeit.

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Sources Used

• חוּמָשׁ שְׁמוֹת ז׳:י״ט, ח׳:י״ב–י״ג, with רש״י citing שמות רבה ט:י׳ on Aharon striking the Nile and the dust. 

• בָּבָא קַמָּא 92b – proverb “בְּאֵרָא דְּשָׁתִית מִינֵּיהּ מַיָּא, לָא תִשְׁדֵּי בֵּיהּ כֵּיפָא.” 

• רַבֵּינוּ בַּחְיֵי עַל הַתּוֹרָה, שְׁמוֹת א׳:ח׳, quoting Midrash “כׇּל הַכּוֹפֵר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל חֲבֵרוֹ סוֹפוֹ שֶׁיִּכְפּוֹר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל הַקָּבָּ״ה.” 

• סַנְהֶדְרִין כ״א:ב׳ – the king’s two Sifrei Torah, including the one that “goes in and out with him.” 

• Shitah Mekubetzet to בָּבָא קַמָּא 92b, as cited by Rav Yaakov Yitzchak Ruderman in Sichot HaLevi, Parashat Va’era, on the Rif and the bathhouse. 

• Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky, “Hitting Pay Dirt,” Parshas Va’era, based on teaching of Rabbi Nosson Shapira of Krakow (bagel widow story; appears in later collections). 

• Rabbi Yissocher Frand, drashot on Va’era (Torah.org) discussing hakarat ha-tov to the Nile and the dust, and the idea that gratitude is measured by the recipient, not the giver. 

• Rabbi Naftali Reich, “Thanking the River,” Legacy series, Parshas Va’era, on hakaras hatov, ego, and the hotel owner mashal. 

Thanking Water and Dust – The Hidden Torah of Hakarat HaTov

In this Breakfast & a Class on Parashat Va’era, delivered on the yahrzeit of Shaya Abittan ע״ה, we explore one of the quietest — and most demanding — foundations of Jewish life: hakarat ha-tov, genuine gratitude. Why was Moshe Rabbeinu forbidden from striking the Nile or the dust of Egypt? What does it mean to owe gratitude even to water, earth, and routine objects that “did what they were supposed to do”? And how does this shape our understanding of bitachon, trust in Hashem?

Drawing on Rashi, Midrash, Gemara, and the teachings of Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky, Rabbi Naftali Reich, and Rav Yaakov Yitzchak Ruderman זצ״ל, this class weaves Torah, memory, and lived experience into a powerful reflection on appreciation, humility, and faith. From a tiny Sefer Torah to the daily words of Modeh Ani, this shiur challenges us to reclaim gratitude as a spiritual discipline — one that transforms how we relate to Hashem, to others, and to our own lives.

This morning’s Va’era class asks a deceptively simple question: if Bnei Yisrael believed in HaShem, cried out to Him, and were promised redemption—why does the Torah describe them as Am K’shei Oref, a stiff-necked people? We follow a powerful framework that emerged from a Friday-night conversation and a small booklet written by my friend Robbie Rothenberg, and then widen the lens through the insights of Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi (Ma‘asei HaShem) and Rabbi Chaim Jachter. The result is a new way to read Va’era: not as a battle over miracles, but as a battle over timing, control, and what happens when faith cannot “breathe.”

Along the way we discover that “stiff-necked” is not only a criticism—it can be destiny. The same rigidity that can make a person refuse rebuke can also make a people unbreakable, capable of carrying Torah through exile and history. We explore kotzer ru’aḥ, the psychology of a crushed spirit, the difference between HaShem “hearing” our pain and our readiness to move, and why the Golden Calf was not simple atheism but panic when structure disappears. The episode closes with a direct, personal takeaway: if we are stiff-necked, we must choose the direction—stubborn against HaShem, or steadfast for HaShem—until we merit the full Ge’ulah במהרה בימינו אמן.

This morning’s class takes a hard look at how Jews are meant
to carry difficulty without losing HaShem. From the Ramban and Ohr HaChaim to
Hillel HaZaqen, Rabbi Akiva, and the weekly gift of Shabbat itself, the episode
reframes bitachon as a lived posture rather than a slogan. It is a conversation
about endurance, meaning, and how to work hard while resting the heart in the
hands of the One who truly runs the world.  

How does slavery return without chains? The Torah’s answer is not violence first, but language, reframing, and selective forgetting. Drawing from Chazal, Midrash, Zohar, and the Maharal, this shiur explores how exile begins when names turn into categories, when gratitude becomes historical footnotes, and when “being clever” replaces moral clarity. From Pharaoh’s calculated amnesia of Yosef to the Torah’s definition of Golut HaDa‘at—exile of the mind—we uncover how oppression takes root long before suffering is visible.

Without panic, politics, or prophecy, this class asks listeners to think clearly about patterns—ancient and modern. What does it mean when protections erode quietly, when definitions shift, and when Jewish legitimacy is reframed rather than attacked outright? Why does redemption in Shemot come quickly once clarity returns? And what does Torah demand of us now—not to run, but to remember? This episode is a sober, source-driven call to strengthen Jewish identity, normalize connection to Eretz Yisrael, and live with one eye open—because Mitsrayim ends when Jews remember who they are. 

In today’s class, we step back from slogans and
soundbites and return to the Torah itself. From Avraham Avinu walking the land
without owning it, to Moshe Rabbeinu being told at the burning bush that the
time for inheritance has finally arrived, we trace how the Torah understands
land not as something seized, but as something entrusted. Along the way, we
explore three timeless ways land is acquired — presence, recognition, and
defense — and why Am Yisra’el uniquely stands on all three, while still insisting
the land is ultimately a gift from HaShem. 

Drawing on Chumash, Midrash, and Gemara — including a
remarkable courtroom exchange in Sanhedrin where the Jewish claim to the land
is tested before the nations of the world — this class reframes one of the most
contested issues of our time with clarity and dignity. We look at history,
archaeology, international recognition, and even modern parallels, but always
through the lens of Torah. This is not a political argument. It is a Torah
conversation — about responsibility, restraint, and why the Jewish connection
to Eretz Yisra’el is deeper than power, louder than accusation, and older than
history itself.  

Not brilliance. Not charisma. Not even miracles. In this episode, we return to the
opening parashiyot of Sefer Shemot and read Moshe Rabbenu’s “résumé” the way the Torah actually presents it — not as a list of achievements, but as a
pattern of burden-bearing. From Moshe walking out of the palace to see the
suffering of his brothers, to carrying a runaway lamb on his shoulders, to
sitting on a stone while Israel fights Amalek, Chazal reveal a single defining
trait: נֹשֵׂא בְּעוֹל עִם חֲבֵרוֹ — carrying the weight of others as your own. 

This class is not about leadership as a title, but leadership as a responsibility of
the heart. Drawing on Midrash, Gemara, and the lived texture of the Torah’s
narrative, it challenges us to rethink influence, compassion, and Jewish
responsibility in difficult times. The takeaway is simple and demanding: the
world doesn’t need more voices — it needs more shoulders.  

Along the way we connect Moshe’s koh va’koh to Birkat Kohanim as a channel of blessing, and to Pirkei Avot’s definition of wisdom: “Eizehu chacham? Ha’ro’eh et ha’nolad” — the one who can see what will come of his actions. The takeaway is simple and sharp: before you speak, before you react, before you act, pause and ask one question — what will be born from this? If you’re looking for a Torah lens that turns impulse into leadership and emotion into clarity, this episode is for you.

But the class doesn’t stay in theory. We trace how time itself becomes a battlefield: twelve hours of day aligned with the Shevatim, twelve hours of night aligned with Eisav and his alufim — and why ḥatzot is the turning point when din breaks and a Jew can reclaim the darkness. From David HaMelekh’s midnight harp to Hillel buried in snow, from “ בֵּית יַעֲקֹב אֵשׁ… וּבֵית יוֹסֵף לֶהָבָה” to the shattering path of the Ten Martyrs and the Arizal’s teaching of ibur, this episode builds to one simple takeaway: don’t surrender the night. Choose one fixed night. Open a sefer after dark. Twenty minutes. One hour. Because when a Jew learns Torah at night, he becomes the missing shevet for that hour — and the night starts to lose.     

Not when a people are enslaved—but when they become comfortable. In this mornings class on Parashat Vayechi, we explore the quiet danger of a beautiful Egypt: success without direction, stability without identity, life that functions but no longer aims. Drawing on Chazal, the final words of Ya‘aqob Avinu, and the penetrating teachings of Rav Hillel in Emunah u’Bitachon, this class reframes galut not as geography, but as an inner condition that slowly erodes clarity. 

  From Yosef’s defining moment of temptation, to the mystery of why Ephraim and Menashe became the eternal model of Jewish blessing, this episode asks one unsettling question: How does a Jew live fully in exile without becoming exiled
inside? It is a class about memory, identity, and the small, quiet choices that protect a soul. Not inspirational fluff—clear Torah, carefully sourced, and painfully
relevant.     

Most people think destruction begins with fire. With shattered walls. With exile.

This class argues otherwise.

Asarah B’Tevet marks the moment before everything collapses — the day the siege began, when nothing was burning yet and everything was still reversible. Drawing from Tanakh, Chazal, and the haunting words of the prophets, this episode traces how quiet decisions, ignored warnings, and comfortable illusions brought Jerusalem to ruin — and why this fast is treated with a gravity unlike any other. It is the only fast that can fall on a Friday, and according to early authorities, one that might have demanded fasting even on Shabbat. Why? Because beginnings matter more than endings.

From the armies of Babylon to the streets of modern New York, this episode confronts the uncomfortable parallels between then and now: rising antisemitism, false confidence, dangerous leadership, and the temptation to believe “it can’t happen here.” This is not a history lesson. It is a wake-up call. A class about recognizing the siege while it is still forming — and about what Jews must do now if we want to reverse the story before the walls close in again.

In this class, we explore how Yehudah’s single step forward shattered a pattern that had haunted Sefer Bereshit for generations — jealousy, rivalry, brothers who could not survive one another. We ask why Ephraim and Menashe became the eternal Jewish blessing, what it means to raise Jewish children in “Egypt,” and why the Rambam insists that Jews raised far from Torah must be drawn close with words of peace, not contempt. This is a class about breaking cycles, healing families, and choosing responsibility when the old instinct would be to step back. VaYechi is not about how things end — it’s about how they finally begin to heal.

Through the “$300 wine” illusion, the “above-average driver”
myth, the berakhah of הַנּוֹתֵן לַשֶּׂכְוִי בִּינָה, Ya‘akov’s
22-year awakening, and a powerful modern story of a young Jew guided back to
Torah by an unexpected teacher, this episode becomes a practical guide to
spiritual clarity. If you’ve ever been certain—and later realized you were
wrong—this is for you. Listen for the one question that changes
everything: What if I’m fooling myself?  

The coffee was finished. Instead there was arak. It was a yahrzeit morning, and the setting was Zecher le-Avraham — a domed synagogue built in memory of Avraham Picciotto, just off the old railway line where tracks once carried people away and life has since grown back around them. From that quiet, early-morning space, surrounded by children, grandchildren, and the layered emotions of being in Israel during a week of Kaddish, this class unfolds.

The episode weaves together personal memory and classical Torah sources to explore one powerful, uncomfortable truth: the love of a parent for a child is deeper, more instinctive, and more absolute than the love in the other direction. Drawing from Parashat Vayigash, the Ḥidushei HaRim, Sanhedrin, Midrash, Zohar, and lived experience — from Ya‘aqov and Yosef to grandparents and grandchildren today — this is a reflection on what parents give, what children owe, and how Torah, tefillah, and Kaddish allow that love to continue flowing even after a parent is gone.

A little arak, a lot of Torah, and a conversation that lingers long after the class ends.

And then Yosef breaks — not from weakness, but from holiness. Chazal reveal that he cannot bear to reveal himself while his brothers stand humiliated in front of Egyptians. He clears the room, weeps so loudly the palace hears, and speaks a sentence that sounds like concern but carries a subtle rebuke that shatters every excuse: “Ani Yosef. Ha’od avi chai?” How did Father survive losing me, if you were certain he would die from losing Binyamin? Our class builds toward a final unity — Yosef and Yehudah, din and rachamim — sealed by Ya‘aqov’s Shema: what looks like two forces is, in truth, One. And some tremendous lessons for each of us

Set
against the convergence of Chanukah, Shabbat, and Rosh Ḥodesh Tevet, this
episode reveals why the darkest month of the year is not a verdict — but an
invitation. Through hidden light, candlelight placed at the threshold, and
Torah that reaches beneath nature itself, we learn how channels can be
sweetened, redirected, and illuminated. This is not about escaping your path.
It is about carrying light into it — and discovering that what felt like
blockage was always waiting to be transformed.  

Drawing on Midrash, Talmud, Zohar, sifrei mussar, and a
memorable story shared by Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky, this class challenges us
to look inward with honesty and courage. It’s not about judging Pharaoh — it’s
about judging ourselves. If Torah inspires you when it’s easy but unsettles you
when it demands, this class is for you. 

And in a week when Jewish hearts are already
raw—especially after the deadly antisemitic attack at a Ḥanukkah gathering in
Sydney, Australia (December 14, 2025) —the message lands even harder: our words must keep HaShem as the
Source, while people remain only vessels. Through Yosef’s two words, Ya‘aqov’s
“few and bad,” Yosef’s silence for kavod av, and Moshe’s “rav” that comes back
to him, we learn one clear takeaway for Ḥanukkah: speak like a Jew who knows
speech is real. Listen now — and share it with someone who needs chizuk this
week. 

As we enter the holiday of Ḥanukkah, this episode connects Yosef’s unwavering faith to the lights we kindle against all odds. It is a reminder that our role is sincere hishtadlut—to act, to try, to light the flame—while the victory itself belongs to Hashem. When He decides that light will prevail, even the smallest effort is enough. This is a timely and grounding conversation about faith, patience, and standing firm when the world pushes back.

We
all love candlelight. It softens a room. It quiets a home. It makes everything
feel spiritual. But the Torah never treats light as ambiance. From the very
beginning of Creation, light is so much more: Vayomer Elokim yehi or — vayehi
or - “And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” 

Chazal
teach that this was no ordinary light: Or she’adam tsofeh bo misof ha’olam ve‘ad sofo - “A light with which one
could see from one end of the world to the other.” 

But
that light was hidden. When Hashem saw that future generations would corrupt
it, He concealed it for the righteous in the future. That light is known as Ohr
HaGanuz, the Hidden Light. And for one week each year, quietly and without
spectacle, that light returns. Its not hidden in lightening, nor in Nevuah –
prophecy. but as a simple flame on our windowsill. 

Perhaps
the question we can ask is not, Do you see the light? The question is: Do you
enter it? 

Before
we begin, I want to give credit where it truly belongs. I prepared a version of
this on the plane to Israel for a class. I was reading old newsletters for this
week’s perasha and this entire sugya opened up for me because of something my
dear friend Nathan Dweck wrote years ago. When I reread his words recently, it
pushed me to go back into the Gemara and the Mussar and really ask: What is the
candle actually demanding from us? That question reshaped this entire class 

The
Gemara teaches: Ha-ragil b’ner — havayan leh banim talmidei ḥakhamim - “One who
is ragil (habitually formed) by the candle will merit children who are Torah
scholars.” Rashi explains that this refers to the candles of Shabbat and
Ḥanukkah. At first glance, this sounds almost mechanical, light properly and
merit Torah scholars. 

But
reality does not support this reading. Many people are meticulous with every
halakhic detail — and yet do not see this outcome. Rav Yeruḥam Olshin cites the
sharp question raised by the son of the Ra’avad: if this promise is literal,
why don’t we see it fulfilled broadly? There are many who fulfill every
halakhic detail to perfection — and still do not see this result. 

The
answer given by the Saba of Kelm is devastating. The candle, he explains, is
not the goal. It is only a siman, a sign. He compares it to a messenger sent on
a mission, given a string tied to his finger so he won’t forget his task. If
the messenger returns and proudly reports, “I guarded the string beautifully,”
but never completed the mission — he has failed completely. 

So
too with the candles. They are not about wax and flame, nor just oil and a
flame, they are meant to awaken: Recognition of Hashem’s power and His love for
Israel, leading to: Kabbalat ol malkhut shamayim b’simḥah - Accepting the yoke
of Heaven with joy. Without that inner transformation, the candle remains
physical light — not mitzvah light. 

This
is why the Saba of Kelm could say his shocking words: “I never fulfilled the
mitzvah of Ḥanukkah in my life.” Not because he did not light — but because
fulfillment means surrender, not compliance.  

Chazal
rule that Asur l’hishtamesh b’oro - “It is forbidden to use the light of the
Ḥanukkah candles.” The Maharal explains that this is not practical
illumination. It is gilui kedushah, a revelation of holiness. You may look at
it. You may not use it. Because once you use light, you control it. But when
you truly encounter sacred light, it controls you. 

The
Menorah in the Beit HaMikdash functioned the same way. Its light was never used
for benefit. The Gemara says it stood as: Edut she’Shekhinah shorah b’Yisrael -
“Testimony that the Divine Presence rests among Israel.” The Ḥanukkah candles
testify to the same thing. 

As
I was walking back from Synagogue on the Yishuv, I noticed people sitting
around a firepit and enjoying the warmth during these rainy cool days here.
Firepits and Fireplaces have become so popular. Even table top mini fire pits
allow one to bask in a bit of warmth, stare at a flame and feel calm. That is
human. 

But
Ḥanukkah is not asking whether the light warms the room. It is asking whether
it warms the soul. To see the light is passive. To enter the light requires
surrender, loyalty, inner reorientation and the courage to live differently.
The blessing is not in what burns on the table. The blessing is in what burns
in the will and inside of us. 

Perhaps
we can suggest that before lighting this year, pause for ten seconds and
quietly whisper, Hashem, I am not just
lighting a candle. I am renewing Your kingship in my life. Then look at the
flames and into the flame searching for the inner light of creation. And ask
yourself one honest question: What does this light obligate me to clean up in
my life? Because the light does not bless the eyes. It blesses the will that
surrenders to it. 

 In our class, we try to strip away the fantasy of perfection and replaces it with something far more real: the holiness of recovery. From Yehudah’s words “Tzadkah mimeni” to David’s “Chatati LaHashem,” we uncover why Jewish kingship is built not on flawlessness, but on return. If you’ve ever failed, fallen short, or wondered if it’s possible to truly start again — this class is for you.

 

We then step into the world of Ikveta d’Meshicha, the slow, almost imperceptible footsteps of redemption, where real change often happens beneath the surface. With a striking story of rushed teshuvah, a Midrash on Avraham’s 25-year wait for Yitzḥak, and a deeply personal closing inspired by a teaching shared by Rabbi Silber and passed on through the next generation, this class delivers one clear, steady message: lasting growth doesn’t happen in leaps—it happens step by step. A timely, strengthening listen for anyone in the middle of rebuilding anything in life.

We explore one of the quietest but most profound moments in Parashat Vayishlaḥ. After Ya‘aqov makes peace with his brother, he settles for eighteen months and builds two kinds of structures: permanent homes for his family and fragile huts for his animals. Yet he names the entire place not “Batim — Homes,” but “Sukkot — Huts.” Why? What message was he sending his children, his descendants, and the world about compassion, leadership, and responsibility?

Through the lens of Rishonim, the Chid”a, and the lives of our shepherd-forefathers — from Hevel to Avraham, Moshe Rabbenu, and David HaMelekh — we uncover a timeless truth: spiritual greatness begins with how we care for those who cannot care for themselves. The class weaves together personal stories, Torah sources, and the unforgettable image of Rav Elya Lopian feeding a stray cat, showing how the simplest acts of kindness shape the leaders of Israel.

This episode takes you deep into the kabbalistic framework of Tohu and Tikkun—chaos and repair—and shows how Ya‘aqov becomes the one who carries Eisav’s abandoned mission. More importantly, it brings the idea straight to our lives: how every Jew wakes up in Ya‘aqov’s tent and then steps into Eisav’s field, gathering sparks, elevating the world, and refusing to confuse a temporary “hug” with a premature “kiss.” It’s a ten-minute journey through Parashat Vayishlaḥ that gives clarity, purpose, and a powerful reminder of what we’re actually doing out there.  

For a more extensive look into this subject, go to our in depth class on the subject from Nov 30, 2023 – “Yaakob taking on his brother’s role”  

This episode isn’t just Torah — it’s a wake-up call. If a single embrace from Yitzḥak could stop Elifaz’s sword… if a bowl of soup could reopen a Talmud Torah in St. Petersburg… if a smile could redirect a young boy’s entire future — then what about our own children and grandchildren? What about the ones who struggle? What about the Elifazes in our lives? This podcast is about the power we hold in our hands every day — the power to shape futures we may never see. Tune in, listen deeply, and carry the message into your week. 

Parashat Vayishlaḥ — Sunday Morning Breakfast Class Edition 

Life doesn’t pause for Torah. Ya‘aqov Avinu reminds us of that this week. For twenty long years he lived in the chaos of Lavan’s house — working nonstop, raising a family, navigating danger, and grinding through the pressures of daily life. Yet when he prepares to face ‘Esav, he sends one cryptic message: “עִם לָבָן גַּרְתִּי — I lived with Lavan… and I held onto all 613 mitzvot.” What does that even mean? And why would ‘Esav care? Our rabbis reveal a deeper truth: Torah isn’t only what you learn — it’s what you refuse to let go of.

This morning’s class explored how longing for Torah carries the power of Torah itself. Drawing from Rashi, the Kli Yakar, Rav Aharon Lopiansky, Rabbi Frand, the Ateres Dudaim, and the life of Rav Avraham Danzig, we traced a single theme: a Jew can be in the middle of real life — in the office, on the road, in the storm — and still be wrapped in the protection and strength of Torah. Ya‘aqov’s secret wasn’t escape. It was bringing holiness into the mud of life. This shiur is for anyone juggling work, family, responsibility, and still trying to stay anchored in Torah. Listen in — and carry Ya‘aqov’s message with you wherever you go.

This episode explores why HaShem waited for Ya‘akov — and only Ya‘akov — to father the Twelve Tribes. We contrast Avraham’s Chesed and Yitzḥak’s Gevurah with Ya‘akov’s Tiferet, the balanced center that brings holiness into everyday life.

Drawing on a penetrating insight from Rabbi Yissocher Frand, we uncover how Ya‘akov, the “simple man,” could stand toe-to-toe with Lavan the deceiver — and how Esther, the woman of silence, learned when silence becomes a sin.

This is a deep dive into middot, self-mastery, and the Torah’s definition of real strength:

becoming a Ba‘al Middot — the master of your traits, not their servant.

If you’ve ever wondered how Heaven handles incomplete choices, old wounds, and the thin line between holiness and destruction — this is the class to hear. It’s gripping, it’s sourced, and it will stay with you long after Shabbat. 

The class is based on a shiur of Rabbi Pinchas Friedman, but is taken on a long tangent. 

Drawing from Midrash, Zohar, and Pirkei de’Rabbi Eliezer, we uncover the hidden layers behind the words “עִם לָבָן גַּרְתִּי” and how Ya‘akov walked through fire without losing himself.

This is the story of the strength you don’t know you have until the moment you need it.

A powerful lesson for a generation living through its own shadows — and learning, once again, to stand like Yisrael.

In this morning’s class, we walk with Ya‘akov Avinu into the darkness — and discover the spark that has carried our people through every exile.

From Har HaBayit to 1492, from Janowska to today, this is the story of the pintele yid that refuses to die — and the miracle of living in a generation that finally has a home to walk toward with keys in our pocket ! 

Rashi and Midrash describe Sarah’s death in terms that at first glance are troubling: shock, confusion, and the Satan’s manipulation. But the deeper reading reminds us of a fundamental principle — Sarah’s 127 years were exact, allotted, and perfect. The Satan can disturb perception, but he cannot write decrees. Her passing was not a tragedy created by chaos, but the precise conclusion of a life lived with purpose.

From there, the episode turns to the larger question every human being faces in moments of pain:

Why did this happen?

Torah and Chassidut invite us to shift the question — gently, honestly — from “לָמָּה?” (Why?) to “לְמָה?” (For what purpose?). We explore a Chassidic story beloved by Rabbi Dr. Twerski ז״ל about a Rebbe whose heavenly clarity revealed that the decrees he once fought were in truth expressions of HaShem’s goodness.

This episode is about vision — the difference between the fragments we see on earth and the full masterpiece revealed Above. It is about how to face loss, fear, confusion, or disappointment without collapsing under the weight of “Why?” And it is about how to trust that even when we cannot see HaShem’s plan, He is guiding us toward purpose, growth, and strength.

If you or someone you love is facing a difficult moment, this episode is meant to offer perspective, comfort, and a path forward.

This week’s class explores why the Torah places life and death in the same breath, the mystery behind the seven burials in the Cave of Machpelah, and how Sarah’s passing became the first eternal foothold of Am Yisrael in the land.

We also revisit the unforgettable story of a premature eulogy — and what it teaches us about who is truly alive.

If you’ve ever wondered what it means to leave a legacy that endures, this is a class to hear and discuss at the Shabbat table.

Why does the Torah record a eulogy only twice — once for Sarah, once for Ya‘akov?

What made Sarah’s hidden life more powerful than public greatness?

A class on tzniut, hidden chessed, and the kind of greatness HaShem reveals — not the world.

Avraham gives “gifts” to the sons of Keturah and sends them east — but gives everything to Yitzḥak. Rashi calls those gifts shēm tum’ah — spiritual power without holiness.

The Vilna Gaon shows the word “הַפִּלַגְשִׁים” hides a warning: פָּלַג־שֵׁם — a split Name. The relationship held only half of HaShem’s Name.

In this class we uncover: why Avraham refused the Ketubah, how a missing letter reveals a cosmic struggle, and why only Yitzḥak carries the full Shem HaVaYaH.

Sometimes the deepest secrets of Torah aren’t in the words — they’re in the missing letter.

Listen to the full class: “When Holiness Must Separate — Chayei Sarah.”

It’s about the man nobody looks at.

Eliezer — called “cursed” by Noach, rejected by Avraham, overshadowed at every turn — is sent on the most sacred mission of the generation: find Yitzhak’s wife. And on that journey, something unbelievable happens.

He doesn’t just succeed.

He transforms.

From cursed to blessed.

From servant to saint.

From outsider… to one who enters Gan Eden alive.

What changed?

One test. One insult. One moment of humility that opened heaven.

Join me as we uncover the secret of how a person can rise — not because life was easy, but because he refused to give up.

This is not just Eliezer’s story.

It’s the blueprint for ours. 

Avraham didn’t just bury Sarah.

He planted the first permanent stake of the Jewish people in the Land of Israel.

This episode reveals:

• The strategy behind the negotiation,
• The Midrashic secrets behind Ephron,
• And why walking away can sometimes be the holiest decision.

This class explores a bold Midrashic theme: that at the Akeidah, Yitzchak experiences a form of death and resurrection. Drawing from four Midrashic sources, the shiur shows how Chazal describe Yitzchak’s soul leaving him as the knife reaches his neck and returning when the angel calls out. From this moment, Yitzchak himself declares the blessing “Baruch… Mechayeh HaMeitim.” 

For another presentation, you can scroll back in your podcasts toNovember 2024, where I delivered another version of the same class at the Safra synagogue. This class works for Vayera and Chaye Sara and if you would like the notes, please let me know.

Discover how Sarah’s reaction in Parashat VaYera teaches us never to underestimate who Hashem chooses to deliver your blessing.   

He passed the Akeidah. 

And he walked home as if nothing happened. 

This week’s episode reveals the power of staying grounded
— in success and in struggle. 

Avraham Avinu teaches us the secret: Greatness doesn’t
need applause. 

Avraham’s first prayer in the Torah wasn’t a prayer at all — it was an argument.

In this class, we explore why Hashem wants your words, not perfect words.

And we’ll see what happens when people finally speak to Him… directly.

Last Friday, just after sunrise minyan at the
Kotel, I was talking with friends when one of the guys from New York spotted me
and gave me a huge hug proclaiming loudly, “Rabbi Bibi, one of my favorite
rabbis, they miss you in Miami.”  

At that moment, a soldier with his machine gun observing
walked over: “Are you Bibi from New York — the one involved with the helmets
and vests?” 

Before I could answer, someone else said, “Yes,
that’s him.” 

The soldier gave me a long hug.

No words. Just a hug. 

Those moments at the Kotel are hard to explain
— the raw mixture of danger, holiness, exhaustion, and gratitude. 

As I walked toward the plaza to record a class,
a young man from America approached me. 

“Rabbi… what exile are we in right now?”
“I know Egypt, Babylonia, Greece, Rome… but what is this?” 

I immediately thought of something my rabbi, Rabbi
Asher Abittan זצ״ל, taught me over twenty-five years ago. 

He said: “The four exiles listed by Daniel are
not the end of history.

The Mekubalim speak of a fifth exile — the exile of Yishma’el.” 

Unlike the previous exiles — symbolized by animals
— this one is represented by a person. 

A dangerous person. 

A wild human. “Ve-hu yih’yeh pereh adam” “He will be a
wild man.” 

Rabbi Abittan added: “When a wild animal
realizes it is cornered — it becomes the most dangerous.” That is what we
are witnessing. 

Ma’aseh Avot, Siman Labanim - The actions of
the fathers shape the destiny of the children. 

The Midrash teaches that when Avraham walked
into Eretz Canaan, every step left a spiritual imprint.

History follows those footprints. 

Rabbenu Beḥaye (Bereshit 21) writes: “There is
no nation that hates Israel more than the children of Yishma’el.” 

How did that hatred begin? 

1. S̱arah afflicts Hagar וַתְּעַנֶּהָ
שָׂרַי — “Sarai afflicted her.” 

Ramban explains: S̱arah sinned in afflicting
Hagar, and Avraham erred by permitting it.

Therefore, Hagar’s offspring will afflict S̱arah’s descendants.  

Not revenge.

Consequence. 

Pain leaves a scar on history. 

2. Avraham blesses Yishma’el 

When Hashem promises Avraham a son through
S̱arah, Avraham responds: Lu Yishma’el yiḥyeh lefanekha — “Would that
Yishma’el live before You.”

Rav Eliyahu Svei זצ״ל, quoting Rav Mendel Kaplan זצ״ל, cites the Zohar: Avraham’s
words gave Yishma’el spiritual power until the end of days. 

3. The Brts Milah at age 13 

The Zohar HaKadosh states: “Woe to the world
that Yishma’el received Milah.” 

Yes — he has a covenant. But it is incomplete —
only skin deep. 

Rabbi Frand explains: Our bris is on day eight
— before ego, before identity, before pride.

Theirs is chosen, not commanded. 

Because of this partial holiness:  

• Yishma’el
  has temporary rights in Eretz Yisrael. 
• But
  not eternal ones. 

We may say it this way: 

Yishma’el holds a visa.

Yitzḥak holds the deed. 

The Gemara (Sanhedrin) describes a gentile
acting with insane cruelty. 

Rav Ashi comments: “This is not hatred. This is
madness.” 

Rav Chaim Vital (Sha’ar HaPesukim) writes: “The
exile of Yishma’el is worse than all others because Yishma’el is called adam
— a human — yet behaves like a wild animal.” 

He cites Tehillim 124:2: “Lulei Hashem… bekum
aleinu adam.” “If not for Hashem… when a man rose against us.” Rav Chaim
Vital says: That “adam” is Yishma’el — the pereh adam. 

The other exiles — described in Daniel — are
animals:  

• Lion
  — Babylonia 
• Bear
  — Persia 
• Leopard
  — Greece 
• Terrifying
  beast — Rome/Edom 

But Yishma’el? 

A human with the instincts of a wild beast. 

Animals do not:  

• Strap
  bombs to themselves. 
• Use
  their own children as shields. 
• Livestream
  murder. 

That is פֶּרֶא אָדָם. 

Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל told us: “When the wild
animal senses the end — that is when it becomes the most violent.” 

In the year 2000, something historic happened. 

Pope John Paul II visited Jerusalem. From the
Kotel plaza, in front of the world, he called the Jewish people: “Our older
brothers.” 

Rabbi Abittan said: “That was the moment the
exile of Edom began to end.” 

Soon after — during the High Holidays of 2000 —
the Intifada exploded. The era of Yishma’el began. 

Not political.

Not territorial. 

Biblical. 

Almost 2000 years ago, Midrash Pirkei
deRabbi Eliezer tells us: Avraham visits Yishma’el’s home.

Yishma’el’s wife gives him water contaminated with worms — kindness used as
cruelty. 

Avraham tells Yishma’el: “Change the threshold
of your house.” (Meaning: change your home — or change your destiny.) 

The Midrash concludes: “In the end of days, the
children of Yishma’el will rule the land for a time, to provoke Israel to
return to their Father in Heaven.” 

In other words: Their rise is designed to wake
us up. 

The Zohar (II:32a) adds: Yishma’el has brit
milah — but not the brit of day eight. Therefore, his rule is temporary. 

Yishma’el rises…  

• not
  to win, 
• but
  to reveal, 
• to
  expose, 
• to
  force us back to Hashem. 

The end of Yishma’el is not when they fall — It’s
when we wake up. 

We Are Seeing Today  

• Suicide
  bombers 
• Human
  shields 
• Killing
  children for “honor” 

That is not politics. 

That is exactly what the Torah predicted: פֶּרֶא
אָדָם — a wild man. Even the Hebrew teaches this. In Hebrew grammar, the
noun comes first: 

פֶּרֶא אָדָם
Pereh adam — “animal-human,”

not adam pereh — “human-animal.” 

The animal is primary.

The humanity is secondary — buried. 

And yet, the verse continues: “Al penei kol
eḥav yishkon” “He will dwell opposite all his brothers.” 

Opposite.

Never together.

Never permanent. 

Rome/Edom collapses when the world admits we
are the older brother.  

Yishma’el collapses when we remember Who our
Father is. 

They cry, “Allahu akbar.”

We answer, “Shema Yisrael…” 

And the world will know the difference. 

Rav Chaim Vital said: “If not for Hashem, they
would swallow us alive.” (Tehillim 124) 

If we cling to Hashem — no פֶּרֶא אָדָם can
touch us. 

History is not happening to us. 

History is happening for us.** 

We are not watching the world fall apart. 

We are watching it fall into place. 

I believe — deeply — 

We are the last generation of Galut

and the first generation of Geulah. 

Shabbat Shalom. 

David Bibi  

A wound that never healed. 

And a truth that echoes at the Kotel today — More than we
do for the poor, they do for us. 

This week’s class, “Noaḥ and the Lion,” explores the
hidden power of kindness that sustains the world, through Midrash, Zohar, and
timeless lessons for our own lives. 

 Two words — ḥatufim and ḥamas — define our times. 

Join us for a powerful journey from Parashat Noaḥ to today’s headlines, revealing how the Torah foresaw the moral collapse of a world that takes instead of gives — and how we can rebuild it through compassion, truth, and giving back.  

Sources

• Genesis 6:11; 21:1

• Deuteronomy 25:13–19

• Exodus 21:16

• Targum Onkelos ad loc.

• Bereshit Rabbah 12:8

• Rashi to Deuteronomy 25:15

• Rabbi Pinchas Winston, Parashat Noaḥ, 2025

Sources Cited

1. Bereshit 1:1; 2:5–7; 2:3

2. Rashi ad loc.

3. Bereshit Rabbah 10:9, 12:8

4. Tehillim 33:6, 9; 104:30; 115:16

5. Yirmeyahu 33:25

6. Devarim 8:3

7. Zohar II 161a

8. Nefesh Haḥayyim, Shaʿar Alef 2; Shaʿar Daled 

From Gaza to Babel — from protest lines to prayer lines —
everyone thinks Heaven agrees with them. 

This week’s class, “Whose Side Is G-d On?”, exposes the
spiritual blindness that turns faith into fiction — and the miracles we miss
when we stop looking up.  

Noaḥ hesitated at the door of the תֵּבָה.

Centuries later, Mosheh faced the same test — and changed history.

This is the story of faith, humility, and Hashem’s confidence in you.

Peace
treaties signed, yet war rages. 

Terrorists
celebrated, truth silenced, and Israel blamed again. 

But
what if this chaos was predicted not by pundits, but by Shlomo HaMelekh himself? 

Join
us as we explore”From the Time of War to the Time of Peace” as examine words
attributed to the Vilna Gaon and his prophetic insight into the calendar of
history showing why this year, 5786, may mark the dawn of the Et Shalom. 

In this powerful post–holiday class, we explore the question that lingers after the shofar’s echo fades: What now? Through the stories of Kayin and Hevel, Noaḥ, and the teachings of the Ba‘al Shem Ṭov and the Lubavitcher Rebbe, he reveals that the true work of teshuvah begins when the inspiration ends — when we stop blaming others and take ownership of our lives. “הַדָּבָר תָּלוּי בִּי – The matter rests with me” becomes a call to action: to carry the holiness of the Yamim Nora’im into the ordinary days ahead, turning awareness into daily renewal.

On הוֹשַׁעְנָא רַבָּה — the night of sweetening judgment — hearts tremble and lips whisper the same plea: that our brothers and sisters be returned, that harsh decrees melt into mercy.

In this special lecture from אֶרֶץ יִשְׂרָאֵל, delivered exactly two years after the tragedy that began on שְׁמִינִי עֲצֶרֶת תשפ״ד, Rabbi David draws us into the mystery of the five willow strikes — the five final letters of the Hebrew alphabet — and how each one transforms divine judgment into compassion.

Join us for The Five Strikes of Mercy — Sweetening Judgment on the Soft Earth — a journey from sorrow to renewal, from the closed gates of exile to the dawn of redemption

Join us to discover how Yom Kippur teaches us to climb
from fear to love, and even transform sins into merits.  

LeZecher Nishmat my grandfather who passed away as we entered Yom Kippur, David Gindi HaKohen Ben Sarina and his great great grandson, Shimon Chai Ben Moriyah Bracha Devora 

 Let me share a story that Rabbi Elimelech Biderman brings
down, one that hits straight to the heart. 

The Krasna Rav tells a story which brings these words of
Rashi alive. 

There was a boy in Bnei Brak losing his eyesight. His
condition was deteriorating rapidly. The best doctors in Israel shook their
heads: nothing more we can do. 

 רצון שתמשיך להאיר את דרכנו בתורתך הקדושה

בכבוד רב ובתודה גדולה

This week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, begins with the mitzvah of
bikkurim—bringing the first fruits to Yerushalayim. The farmer didn’t just
deliver the fruits. He made a declaration, retelling the story of our people:
“Arami oved avi”—from Lavan chasing Ya‘akov, to the slavery in Mitzrayim, to
Hashem redeeming us with a mighty hand. 

Why? Because gratitude is not just giving—it’s
remembering. We don’t only thank Hashem for the fruit; we thank Him for our
history, for those who came before us, for the gift of time itself. 

And that brings me to a story. 

Rabbi Yaakov Moskowitz once shared a remarkable story he
heard directly from Rabbi Ya’akov Mills, the rabbi of Young Israel of Memphis.
Rabbi Mills had learned in Yeshivat Chofetz Chaim in Queens before his
marriage. Every Shabbat, he and a few fellow students would travel to Brooklyn
to staff a group home for men with special needs. During the week they had
nurses and aides; on Shabbat, these bochurim became their companions—bringing
them to shul, singing zemirot, and sharing meals. 

In that home was a man named Baruch. He was about seventy
years old, with developmental disabilities, but very much part of the Shabbat
table. One Friday night, Baruch asked if he could share a devar Torah. Of
course, they encouraged him. He stood up, spoke some words about the
parashah—not very coherent, but heartfelt. Everyone applauded: “Yasher koach,
Baruch!” 

And Baruch smiled and said, “I’m so glad you liked it.
You know… Rav Pam also liked my devar Torah.” 

At first, they thought it was just his imagination. Week
after week he would repeat the pattern—say a few words, get cheered, then
insist, “Rav Pam also liked it.” They assumed he had once seen Rav Avraham Pam,
the Rosh Yeshiva of Torah Vodaas, maybe even shook his hand, and in his mind,
Rav Pam “liked” his Torah. 

But Rabbi Mills was curious. One week he arrived early on
Friday afternoon. And to his shock, he saw Baruch holding the phone, delivering
his devar Torah. Rabbi Mills tiptoed upstairs, picked up the extension, and
listened. He heard Baruch conclude—and then he heard a warm, gentle voice
respond: 

“Baruch, that was such a beautiful devar Torah. Thank you
so much for sharing it with me.” 

It was the unmistakable voice of the gadol hador, Rav
Avraham Pam, zikhrono livrakhah. 

Rabbi Mills later investigated. He discovered that
Baruch’s family had once davened in Rav Pam’s shul. And for thirty years—every
single Friday afternoon—Rav Pam had picked up the phone, listened to Baruch’s
devar Torah, and encouraged him. 

Think about that. Thirty years. On Erev Shabbat, when the
Rosh Yeshiva of Torah Vodaas—shouldering the worries of the Jewish people—had a
thousand demands on his time. He still made time for one lonely Jew. 

That is bikkurim. Hashem gives us the gift of time, and
the question is: what do we give back? 

Sometimes we say, “I’m too busy.” But if Rav Pam could
carry the burdens of Klal Yisrael and still make time, can we not give a few
minutes to lift someone’s spirits, to call a friend, to listen to a child, to
be present for another Jew? 

And when we do, we fulfill the blessing in this week’s
parashah: 

“וְשָׂמַחְתָּ בְּכָל־הַטּוֹב אֲשֶׁר נָתַן לְךָ ה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ
וּלְבֵיתֶךָ” 

—“Then you will rejoice in all the good that Hashem your
God has given you and your household.” 

.  

The Boat That Saves Us - Ki Tabo

Ki Tavo el ha’aretz… — When you come to the Land… (Devarim 26:1).

This week’s parashah begins with a mitzvah of gratitude: bringing the first fruits to the Beit HaMikdash. For us, it also stirs deep gratitude — that so many of our children and grandchildren are already settled in Eretz Yisrael. Baruch Hashem, the dream of two thousand years has become their daily life.

And yet, alongside the joy is a touch of sadness. FaceTime is nice, but it doesn’t replace a hug. And I each morning, I see Shimon’s face in my mind’s eye — my guiding angel. 

And when my friend Abie, following Irving and family’s Aliyah, joined the “commuting to visit the grandchildren club,” I smiled. Because every trip, every hug, every birthday, is a reminder: our destiny is there. May we all one day “commute” permanently.

Reading through my parsha notes for Ki Tabo, i had to pause and acknowledge again the loss of Rabbi Berel Wein זצ״ל — a teacher to so many of us. 

His voice shaped a generation. His perspective was unique, his humor sharp, and his weaving of Torah with Jewish history one of a kind. For many of us, his cassette tapes — yes, those plastic rectangles we wore out in our car stereos - from the Destiny Foundation, were for years, our daily Torah.

Act I – Fairy Tales in the Talmud

Rabbi Wein had a gift for turning even the strangest aggadah into a mirror of Jewish history. Take Bava Batra 73b, where Rabba bar bar Ḥana describes a ship that landed on what seemed like an island. Grass grew on it. They lit a fire. But it was a fish’s back! The fire burned, the fish flipped, and only the nearby boat saved them from drowning.

Rabbi Wein would say: this is not a fairy tale. This is our history. We Jews convince ourselves we are on solid ground. We build, we invest, we imagine permanence. But in reality? We are standing on the back of a fish. One shift, one fire, and we’re tossed into the sea. The only salvation is the boat — the Torah, the mitzvot, the covenant with Hashem.

Act II – Beams and Guarantees

He once told of his Monsey years, building a new synagogue. Canadian beams came with an 80-year guarantee. Someone pointed out Finnish beams with a 300-year guarantee. Rabbi Wein asked: Are we planning for 300 years in exile?

This wasn’t a joke. He remembered Detroit: Jews built a synagogue, then moved. Built another, then moved. Each time, they sold the old building to a church. At one point, the pastor asked to join their building committee — since eventually, he’d be buying their next synagogue too!

That was Rabbi Wein’s sharp eye: we think we are building on bedrock. In truth, history proves otherwise.

Act III – The Human Parallel

One Yom Kippur in his Jerusalem shul, a beloved chazan faltered. A diabetic reaction left him unable to continue selichot. He sat down, they gave him something to drink. He was shaken. Rabbi Wein reflected: that’s life. One small imbalance, and a man collapses. We are so fragile.

Look at fortunes built in gold and oil, fortunes gone in a generation. Look at empires — Rome, Spain, Germany — each thought eternal, each flipped over like Rabba bar bar Ḥana’s fish.

And so he would hammer it in: The only thing that lasts is the boat. The boat is Torah. The boat is mitzvot. The boat is kindness. The boat is Hashem’s truth.

Act IV – Ki Tavo and the Land

Now return to our parashah. Ki tavo el ha’aretz… “When you come into the Land.” The mitzvah of bikkurim is not only gratitude for fruit; it is gratitude for permanence. Unlike the exile, this land is not a fish. It is a promise.

Yet to the world, Israel looks like the most unstable “island” on earth — surrounded by hostility, tiny, fragile. But Rabbi Wein would remind us: this is Hashem’s boat. It may look shaky, but it is the one place guaranteed by prophecy, covenant, and eternity.

Act V – The One Request

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, we arrive with lists. Health, livelihood, success, peace. But let me ask you: if you could only request one thing, what would it be?

Rabba bar bar Ḥana gave us the answer: Stay in the boat. That’s it. If we and our children are in the boat, anchored in Torah and mitzvot, connected to Hashem, we are safe.

That boat is our synagogue, our family table, our little slice of Yerushalayim, our bond across generations. Whether shopping in Machane Yehuda to fill a fridge in Jerusalem or singing Adon Olam with a three-year-old sabra in Tel Aviv — that is permanence.

Closing – Rabbi Wein’s Legacy

Rabbi Wein once said that history is Hashem’s way of showing us the patterns we refuse to see. Exile is a fish. Israel is the boat.

So in his memory, let’s live his message. Don’t trust the guarantees of 300-year beams in exile. Trust the covenant that has already lasted 3,000 years.

“וְשָׂמַחְתָּ בְּכָל־הַטּוֹב אֲשֶׁר נָתַן לְךָ ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ וּלְבֵיתֶךָ אַתָּה וְהַלֵּוִי וְהַגֵּר אֲשֶׁר בְּקִרְבֶּךָ”

“Then you shall rejoice in all the good which Hashem your God has given you, and your household — you, the Levite, and the stranger in your midst.”

Amen.

David 

The Torah says explicitly (Vayikra 11:32): 

 וְטָמֵא
עַד־הָעָרֶב וְטָהֵר 

“…he shall be tamei until evening, and then he shall be
tahor.” 

The question jumps off the page: 

If immersion in the mikveh purifies, why is it not
enough? 

Why must the Torah insist on waiting for הֶעֶרֶב שֶׁמֶשׁ? 

The Gemara 

 • Horayot 5a: discusses a tevul yom
who is still lacking ha‘arev shemesh and cannot yet eat kodashim. He has acted,
but his taharah is incomplete until the day itself ends. 

 • The same principle appears in other
masechtot: 

 • Zevachim 22a: “טבול יום חסר הערב שמש”
— the tevul yom is still missing sunset. 

 • Chagigah 20b: a tevul yom is in an
“in-between” state — not tamei enough to forbid everything, but not tahor
enough for kodashim. 

 • Nazir 16b: compares tevul yom to
one who has not yet brought his korban; the process is incomplete until all
steps are done. 

So halachically: tevillah begins the process, but ha‘arev
shemesh completes it. 

Ramban 

The Ramban (on Vayikra 11:39) writes: 

 “הטבילה
מטהרת את הגוף מן הטומאה, אבל הערב שמש הוא טהרת היום.” 

“The immersion purifies the body from the tumah, but the
setting of the sun purifies the day.” 

The mikveh removes the person’s impurity. But the day
itself, the time in which tumah occurred, must also be cleansed — and that can
only happen when the sun sets. 

Rashba 

The Rashba (Torat HaBayit, Beit 4, Sha’ar 1): 

 “הטבילה
מסירה רוב הטומאה, אבל נשאר רשימה עד שיעריב שמשו.” 

“Immersion removes most of the tumah, but a trace remains
until the sun sets.” 

Like a stain — most is washed away, but a faint mark
lingers until the cycle of time itself clears it completely. 

Maharal 

The Maharal (Tiferet Yisrael, ch. 20): 

 “אין
האדם נחשב חדש עד שיחזור העולם למצבו מחדש, וזהו בהערב שמש.” 

“A person is not considered truly new until the world
itself renews, and this occurs with the setting of the sun.” 

The mikveh is rebirth, but a new creation is only sealed
when the world itself turns the page with nightfall. 

Zohar and Kabbalah 

The Zohar (Shemini 41a): 

 “טומאה
דבקה ביומא, ובשקיעת שמשא מסתלקא טומאה מיני.” 

“Tumah clings to the day itself, and with the setting of
the sun the tumah departs from it.” 

The Arizal explains: tumah attaches to the dinim (the
judgments) of that day. Only when the sun sets, and the gevurah of that day
dissolves, can taharah be complete. 

Chassidut 

The Sfat Emet (Emor, 5643): 

 “הטבילה
היא אתערותא דלתתא, אבל הערב שמש הוא אתערותא דלעילא.” 

“Immersion is the awakening from below, but the setting
of the sun is the awakening from above.” 

We begin the work, but Hashem must complete it. 

The Life Lesson 

This halachah is a parable for life. 

Sometimes we must act with all our strength — plunge into
the waters, do the mitzvah, cry the tefillah. 

But we cannot finish the job alone. 

Only Hashem can close the day and open a new one. 

The Tears of a Grandfather 

I thought about this when we spoke recently of that young
girl on TJJ. 

She came to our home on Sukkot, curious, holding a lulav
and etrog for the very first time. 

Her great-grandfather was a holy man. 

Can you imagine his pain in this world? Watching his
descendants drift, never living to see his great-grandchildren return. 

But he did his part. He cried, he prayed, he planted
seeds. That was his mikveh. 

And then he had to wait. 

Because time is only relative to us. 

Hashem decides when the ha‘arev shemesh will come — when
the cycle will turn, and the tumah of that day will pass. 

And then, a generation or two later, a granddaughter
awakens. She steps into a sukkah, curious, ready to return. 

That is Hashem finishing the work. That is the sun
setting and taharah becoming whole. 

Takeaway 

The mikveh is us. The sunset is Hashem. 

We must immerse, act, and cry. 

But only Hashem can bring the evening, close the page,
and finish what we began. 

So in our struggles, our hopes for our children, and our
tefillot for Am Yisrael — do your part. Immerse yourself in the work. 

And trust that in His time, Hashem will bring the evening
and complete the taharah. 

 כִּי־תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה
עַל־אֹיְבֶיךָ 

“When you go out to war against your enemies.” 

  This week, in Parashat Ki Tavo, the language shifts: 

 וְהָיָה כִּי־תָבוֹא
אֶל־הָאָרֶץ 

“And it shall be when you come into the Land…” 

 The transition is profound. 

 • Ki Teitzei is about going out—facing struggle and battle, both external and internal. 

 • Ki Tavo is about coming in—arriving at blessing, permanence, and sanctity. 

The mekubalim explain: if you want to “come in” to blessing,
you must first “go out” for others. When you lift another Jew, you are really
lifting the sparks bound to your own soul. And the Ḥasidic masters add: when
you fight for someone else’s Shabbat, someone else’s connection, Hashem fights for your own. 

לֹא־יָבֹא עַמּוֹנִי וּמוֹאָבִי בִּקְהַל ה׳… עַל־דְּבַר אֲשֶׁר
לֹא־קִדְּמוּ אֶתְכֶם בַּלֶּחֶם וּבַמַּיִם בַּדֶּרֶךְ בְּצֵאתְכֶם מִמִּצְרָיִם וַאֲשֶׁר
שָׂכַר עָלֶיךָ אֶת־בִּלְעָם בֶּן־בְּעוֹר… (דברים כ״ג:ד–ה). 

  “An Ammonite or Moabite shall not enter into the congregation of Hashem… because they did not greet you with bread and water on the way when you left Egypt, and because they hired Bil‘am son of Be‘or to curse you.” 

  Now wait. Let’s be honest. Which crime sounds worse? Moav
hired Bil‘am to curse, to destroy, to annihilate. Amon? They just didn’t bring
out some bread and water. At worst, a breach of etiquette. 

 So why does the Torah treat them equally? Why are they both forever excluded from joining Am Yisrael?  

he first appearance is in Shoftim:

כִּי־תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה עַל־אֹיְבֶיךָ וְרָאִיתָ סוּס וָרֶכֶב עַם רַב מִמְּךָ לֹא־תִירָא מֵהֶם כִּי ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ עִמָּךְ הַמַּעַלְךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם. (דְּבָרִים כ׳:א׳)

Here the Torah speaks about a communal war — the entire nation arrayed against the enemy. The Kohen gives his powerful speech: “Do not fear, for Hashem is with you.”

The Malbim points out: this refers to a milchemet mitzvah — an obligatory war of defense or conquest, commanded by Hashem. Holy and necessary — but dangerous. War means bloodshed, and bloodshed can desensitize a people.

Which is why, immediately after this section, the Torah turns to eglah arufah.

Eglah Arufah: The Calf and Responsibility for Blood

The Torah describes:

כִּי־יִמָּצֵא חָלָל בָּאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לְךָ לְרִשְׁתָּהּ נֹפֵל בַּשָּׂדֶה לֹא נוֹדַע מִי הִכָּהוּ… וְעָנוּ וְאָמְרוּ יָדֵינוּ לֹא שָׁפְכוּ אֶת־הַדָּם הַזֶּה וְעֵינֵינוּ לֹא רָאוּ. (דְּבָרִים כ״א:א׳–ז׳)

A murdered body is found. The elders of the closest city must bring a calf, break its neck in a barren valley, and declare: “Our hands did not spill this blood, nor did our eyes see.”

The Gemara Sotah (46b) asks: Who would ever suspect the elders of being murderers? Chazal explain: They are not saying, “We didn’t kill him.” They are saying, “We did not abandon him. We did not let him leave our city without food, without escort, without dignity.”

The Kli Yakar writes: this is placed between two “wars” to remind us that even when blood is spilled on the battlefield, we must never cheapen life. If you become casual with life in war, you will eventually become casual at home.

The Midrash Tanchuma (Shoftim 15) emphasizes: leaders bear responsibility. Even indirect neglect is guilt. And the Zohar (Shoftim 277a) deepens the point: when blood is spilled without clarity, it is a sign of an unresolved inner war — the yetzer hara still raging inside.

The Torah shifts from the communal battlefield to the private struggle:

כִּי־תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה עַל־אֹיְבֶיךָ וּנְתָנוֹ ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ בְּיָדֶךָ וְשָׁבִיתָ שִׁבְיוֹ. (דְּבָרִים כ״א:י׳)

The soldier sees a captive woman — the יְפַת תּוֹאַר — and desires her.

But the Torah does not stop there. It traces the spiritual fallout step by step:

1. יְפַת תּוֹאַר – passion and impulse.

2. אִשָּׁה שְׂנוּאָה – the woman once desired becomes a hated wife.

3. בֵּן סוֹרֵר וּמוֹרֶה – the next generation spirals into rebellion and destruction.

(Based on Rabbi Elimelech Biderman שליט״א, with additional story from Rabbi Shlomo Farhi שליט״א) 

 My friends, imagine this: you’re walking on a long, empty road. Not a car in sight. No phone service. No flashlight. The world is dark, the wind whistles, and your footsteps echo. Suddenly, you ask yourself—am I truly alone?  

Join us as we explore how Ya‘akov Avinu’s pledge of ma‘aser
teaches us to crown the mind over the heart, turning even the yetzer hara
into a force for good through the joy of Torah. 

Introduction 

My friends,
as we gather this Shabbat afternoon, I want to take you straight into the heart
of our parashah — Parashat Re’eh based on the teachings of the Shvilei
Pinchas – Rabbi Pinchas Friedman  

The Torah
tells us: 'עַשֵּׂר תְּעַשֵּׂר אֵת כָּל תְּבוּאַת זַרְעֲךָ, הַיּוֹצֵא הַשָּׂדֶה,
שָׁנָה שָׁנָה'

— “You shall surely tithe all the produce of your seed that comes forth from
the field year by year” (דברים יד, כב). The language is striking: עַשֵּׂר
תְּעַשֵּׂר — a double command. Not just “give,” but “give and give again.” 

Chazal in
the Midrash Tanchuma (Re’eh 11) tell us something astonishing: רַבִּי לֵוִי
אוֹמֵר — Yisrael are purified before HaKadosh Barukh Hu through two great
merits: the merit of Shabbat, and the merit of ma‘asrot. 

Think about
that. We often speak about Shabbat as the great purifier of Am Yisrael — the
day that uplifts, the day that sanctifies. But here the Midrash tells us: ma‘aser
— giving a tenth of our produce, our income — has a similar purifying power. 

And then the
Midrash takes us deeper. It connects this mitzvah of tithing to another pasuk
later in Devarim (כו, יא): 'וְשָׂמַחְתָּ בְּכָל הַטּוֹב, אֲשֶׁר נָתַן לְךָ
ה’ אֱלֹקֶיךָ' — “And you shall rejoice in all the good that Hashem
your G-d has given you.” 

But wait —
Chazal immediately ask: What is this “טּוֹב” that the Torah speaks of?
And they answer with a principle that reverberates through all of Torah: אֵין
טוֹב אֶלָּא תּוֹרָה — There is no true good except Torah.

As it is written in Mishlei (ד, ב): 'כִּי לֶקַח טוֹב נָתַתִּי לָכֶם, תּוֹרָתִי
אַל תַּעֲזֹבוּ'. 

So here is
the puzzle that sets the stage for our shiur today:

Why does the Torah tie together three seemingly different things — ma‘aser,
simḥah, and Torah?

Why does giving a tenth of our field’s produce connect me to the ultimate joy
of “כָּל הַטּוֹב”?

And why do Chazal insist that this “טוֹב” is not grain, not wine, not wealth —
but only Torah? 

This, my
friends, will be our journey this afternoon. We’re going to take a lesson from
the Zohar and structure this class so that we move from level to level and in a
way travel together through seven halls, or seven heichalot, each one
opening a window into the mystery of עַשֵּׂר תְּעַשֵּׂר, the joy of וְשָׂמַחְתָּ
בְּכָל הַטּוֹב, and the eternal truth that אֵין טוֹב אֶלָּא תּוֹרָה. And along the way, as always, we’ll weave
stories — from the Talmud, the Midrash, the great Chassidic masters — stories
that will bring this journey to life, so that when we walk out of this Beit
Midrash, we don’t just understand the mitzvah of ma‘aser, but we feel it, we
live it, we carry its joy into our homes. 

Some we recognize, some are strangers passing through.

They come with letters, envelopes, sometimes with tears.

And if you think about it — many of them come hoping that today will be the day their prayers are answered.

There’s a danger here.

Not that we’ll stop giving — but that we’ll start giving without feeling.

That our hands will stay open, but our hearts will close.

The Torah’s Words

In Parashat Re’eh (Devarim 15:7–8), the Torah says:

“כִּֽי־יִהְיֶה֩ בְךָ֨ אֶבְי֜וֹן מֵאַחַ֤ד אַחֶ֙יךָ֙ בְּאַחַ֣ד שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ בְּאַ֨רְצְךָ֔ אֲשֶׁר־ה׳ אֱלֹקֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֣ן לָ֑ךְ לֹ֧א תְאַמֵּ֣ץ אֶת־לְבָבְךָ֗ וְלֹ֤א תִקְפֹּץ֙ אֶת־יָ֣דְךָ֔ מֵאָחִ֖יךָ הָאֶבְיֽוֹן׃

“If there is a needy person among you, one of your brothers, in one of your gates in your land that Hashem your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and do not close your hand from your needy brother.”

“כִּֽי־פָתֹ֧חַ תִּפְתַּ֛ח אֶת־יָדְךָ֖ ל֑וֹ וְהַעֲבֵט֙ תַּעֲבִיטֶ֔נּוּ דֵּ֚י מַחְסֹר֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֥ר יֶחְסַ֖ר לֽוֹ׃”

“Rather, you shall surely open your hand to him, and lend him whatever he needs, whatever he is lacking.”

Notice:

• The Torah doesn’t just say “open your hand.” It says “open your hand to him.”

• And it begins not with the hand, but with the heart: “Do not harden your heart.”

Devarim 6:16: “לֹא תְנַסּוּ אֶת־ה׳ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם, כַּאֲשֶׁר נִסִּיתֶם בַּמַּסָּה”

“Do not test Hashem your God, as you tested Him at Massah.”

This forbids challenging Hashem to “prove” Himself by fulfilling our conditions. The Torah is recalling the incident in Shemot 17:1–7:

• The people had no water and demanded:

“הֲיֵשׁ ה׳ בְּקִרְבֵּנוּ אִם אָיִן — Is Hashem in our midst or not?”

• They challenged Moshe to “prove” that Hashem was with them.

• That place was called Massah (“testing”) because they tested Hashem by saying, “Is He among us or not?”

Sefer HaChinuch Mitzvah 435

The prohibition is to set up a situation in which we demand Hashem prove Himself, as though we will only trust Him if He fulfills certain conditions.

• This is the opposite of emunah — trust without conditions.

• We are to believe and rely on Hashem because of His word, His Torah, and His proven history with us — not because we demand a personal miracle.

Testing Hashem can take many modern forms:

1. Making Deals with Heaven – “If You do X for me, I’ll start keeping Shabbat.” That’s not a covenant — it’s a test.

2. Reckless Risk Expecting Miracles – Putting oneself in danger and saying, “Hashem will protect me,” instead of taking normal precautions.

3. Demanding Signs – Refusing to believe or act unless a supernatural sign occurs.

4. Treating Mitzvot as Experiments – Performing a mitzvah “just to see if it works” rather than as service to Hashem.

That said, Chazal (Malachi 3:10) make one exception: When it comes to ma‘aser (tithing), the Torah says, “וּבְחָנוּנִי נָא בָּזֹאת — Test Me with this,” meaning we are invited to see how Hashem blesses those who give generously.

The Sefer HaChinuch (Mitzvah 435) teaches: • In all areas of life, faith means trusting Hashem without setting conditions.

• But with tzedakah and ma‘aser, Hashem gives explicit permission to “test” Him — because giving away part of our wealth feels like loss, and Hashem wants us to experience the truth that generosity brings blessing.

Halacha of the Day on “לא לעזוב את הלוי” — Not to forsake the Levi (Sefer HaChinukh mitzvah 505 in most editions).

1. The mitzvah is from Devarim 12:19:

“הִשָּׁמֶר לְךָ פֶּן־תַּעֲזֹב אֶת־הַלֵּוִי כָּל־יָמֶיךָ עַל־אַדְמָתֶךָ”

“Guard yourself lest you forsake the Levite all your days upon your land.”

The Levi’im were not given a portion of land in Eretz Yisrael — their livelihood came from the ma’aser rishon (first tithe) that the other tribes were commanded to give. This mitzvah warns us not only to fulfill the technical requirement of giving the ma’aser, but also to maintain an ongoing relationship of support and respect for the Levi, ensuring they can dedicate themselves to their service in the Beit HaMikdash and teaching Torah.

The Rambam in Sefer HaMitzvot counts this as a separate mitzvah because it adds an ongoing, proactive dimension: it’s not enough to pay your “tax”; you must be careful never to let the Levi feel abandoned.

2. Today, without a Beit HaMikdash, Levi’im do not perform Temple service and we don’t give ma’aser rishon in the Torah sense. But the underlying principle — supporting those who dedicate their lives to Avodat Hashem and Torah — still applies.

• This could mean supporting Torah scholars, teachers, and communal leaders who rely on the community.

• It could also mean showing kavod to Levi’im in shul — calling them first to the Torah, maintaining their role in birkat kohanim if they are also kohanim, and giving them their due place in the community.

• On a deeper level, the mitzvah reminds us not to “abandon” anyone in the community who depends on us — especially those serving the spiritual needs of others.

3. The is a story told of The Vilna Gaon who once hosted a guest for Shabbat who was a Levi. During the meal, the Gaon personally served him first from every dish. When asked why, he explained:

“The Torah commands us not to forsake the Levi — not only in their sustenance, but in honor. If in the days of the Mikdash they stood at the gates singing before Hashem, how much more so now, when they keep that tradition alive, should we honor them in our homes.”

It’s said that the Levi left uplifted, feeling valued not for his title alone but for his role in the chain of Avodat Hashem. That’s the essence of the mitzvah: making sure a Levi never feels invisible.

4. While the Levi’im of today may not stand on the steps of the Beit HaMikdash, the Torah’s call echoes: Don’t forsake those who serve Hashem in your midst.

This mitzvah teaches us to notice, to support, and to honor — whether it’s a Levi in shul, a teacher in the beit midrash, or anyone whose avodah benefits the whole community.

At our next opportunity, greet a Levi warmly, make sure he is given the proper kavod, or support someone in full-time Torah work — and know that you’re fulfilling the spirit of “לא תעזוב את הלוי”.

The Rambam’s Expansion — Every Jew Can Be a Levi

In Hilchot Shemitah V’Yovel 13:12–13, the Rambam writes something astonishing:

“Not only the tribe of Levi, but any human being… whose spirit moves him and whose understanding grants him the wisdom to separate himself and stand before Hashem… is sanctified as holy of holies, and Hashem will be his portion and inheritance forever. And Hashem will provide his sustenance in this world, as He did for the Kohanim and Levi’im.”

The Rambam is saying that the essence of Levi is not genetic — it’s a calling. A person who devotes themselves to Torah and to serving the community becomes, spiritually, a “Levi.”

So “don’t forsake the Levi” means:

• Yes, support the physical Levi’im — that’s the mitzvah’s root.

• But also, don’t forsake the Levi role in our own lives — the part of us that wants to step away from pure material pursuit to stand before Hashem.

• And don’t forsake others who have taken that role — the teachers, learners, and spiritual leaders around you.

Why This is Powerful Today

If the Beit HaMikdash stood, you’d bring your ma’aser to the Levi and go home. Today, your “ma’aser” might be the time, resources, or attention you give to those living in service of Torah. And according to the Rambam, it might even mean supporting the Levi within yourself — carving out time from the daily grind to learn, daven, or do chesed, even when it’s not your “job.”

Story to Illustrate

A well-known rosh yeshiva in Israel once said that as a young man, his father — a shopkeeper — would bring home the day’s earnings and set aside money for Torah scholars before anything else, even food.

When asked why, he answered:

“If we forsake the Levi, we forsake the Shechinah in our town. And if we forsake the Shechinah, what are we eating for anyway?”

Years later, that same shopkeeper’s son became a major teacher of Torah, supported by others’ generosity — a full-circle fulfillment of לא תעזוב את הלוי.

This mitzvah isn’t just about “them” — it’s about us. Supporting the Levi means nurturing the people, and the part of ourselves, that stand in service before Hashem. When we give to them, we’re not just sustaining them — we’re sustaining the spiritual heartbeat of our community.

Once? Twice? Ten times? 

Moshe Rabbenu gathers the people one last time, and he
doesn’t teach them anything “new.” No fresh miracles. No dazzling wonders. He
retells stories they already know. He repeats. Again. And again. 

הוֹאִ֛יל מֹשֶׁ֥ה בֵאֵ֖ר אֶת־הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את לֵאמֹֽר׃ 

“Then Moshe undertook to expound this Torah…” (דברים א׳:ה׳) 

Why the repetition? Because Moshe isn’t lecturing. He’s
engraving. He’s searing memory into the soul of a people. 

And as we approach תִּשְׁעָה בְּאָב, our national day of
mourning, we learn from Parashat Devarim the sacred power of memory—how
remembering can be redemptive, and how forgetfulness can destroy.  

יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ ה אֱלֹקינוּ

וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, שֶׁכָּל טִפָּה וְטִפָּה שֶׁל זֶרַע שֶׁיֵּצֵא מִמֶּנִּי לַבַּטָּלָה, בֵּין בְּאוֹנֶס בֵּין בִּרְצוֹן, בֵּין בְּשׁוֹגֵג בֵּין בְּמֵזִיד,

בֵּין בְּעֵר בֵּין בְּיָשֵׁן, בֵּין עַל יְדֵי בֵּין עַל יְדֵי אֲחֵרִים, שֶׁלֹּא בְּמָקוֹם מִצְוָה,

עֲשֵׂה לְמַעַן שִׁמְךָ הַגָּדוֹל וְהַנּוֹרָא הַיּוֹצֵא מִפָּסוּק תֵּהִל בַּל וְיִקָּרֵנוּ, שֶׁתַּחֲזִירֵם לִמְקוֹמָם בִּמְקוֹם הַקּוֹדֶשׁ.

You didn’t mean to kill.

Maybe a tool slipped from your hand. Maybe you looked away for a second. It doesn’t matter now. Someone died, and the Torah says you must go — to the עיר מקלט.

Exiled. Alone. Separated from your family.

Maybe it feels like you’re in Iowa, and your whole life — your wife, your kids, your parents — are all back in New York.

And every day in exile… you pray.

Not for forgiveness. Not even for understanding. Just one plea:

“Please, Hashem — let the Kohen Gadol die, so I can go home.”

And the Torah says:

כִּ֤י בְעִיר֙ מִקְלָט֔וֹ יֵשֵׁ֖ב עַד־מ֥וֹת הַכֹּהֵ֣ן הַגָּד֑וֹל

“He shall dwell in his city of refuge until the death of the Kohen Gadol…” (במדבר ל״ה:כ״ח)

But here’s the puzzle:

Why should this prayer work?

 In Jewish law, vows are serious matters. A neder or a shevuah is not just a passing statement. It creates a personal prohibition. And to dissolve such a vow requires either an expert—יָחוֹל לְהָתִיר נֶדֶר—or a בית דין של שלושה הדיוטות.

But what’s striking is how the Torah introduces this mitzvah.

Usually, when Moshe receives a mitzvah to transmit, it’s passed from him to אַהֲרֹן, then to his sons, the זְקֵנִים, and finally to all of בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל.

But here—וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר מֹשֶׁ֗ה אֶל־רָאשֵׁ֛י הַמַּטּ֖וֹת.

Rashi comments: “לכבודם של נשיאים נאמר.” The reason? Because the annulment of vows is a unique halachic tool given to leaders, to experts. Not every judge can do it. It requires שִׁקּוּל דַּעַת, יִרְאַת שָׁמַיִם, and the discernment to distinguish between a vow made in clarity and one made in desperation.

But I’d like to go deeper.

And here’s how it goes: 

Yehoshua’s father was a righteous man. He and his wife had
no children. He prayed passionately for a child, and at last, Hashem answered
his prayers.  

Yehoshua’s mother noticed that although she had become
pregnant, her husband was still not happy. He was crying and fasting even more
than before. Overwhelmed by his constant sorrow, she turned to him and said,
“You should rejoice! Hashem has heard your prayers! We are going to have a
baby!” But still, he remained troubled. Pressed daily by her concern, he
eventually revealed the reason for his sadness: a message had come to him from
Heaven—the boy who will be born to you is destined to behead you. 

His wife believed him, for she knew her husband was on a
great spiritual level. When the child was born, and it was indeed a boy, she
quietly made a small box, coated it, placed the infant inside, and set him
afloat upon the Nile. 

One day, Pharaoh held a grand feast for all his ministers.
Among the royal delicacies brought to the table was a very big fish. When it
was cut open before the king, to everyone's astonishment, a crying baby was
found inside. Struck by the wonder, Pharaoh adopted the child and raised him
within the palace. In time, the boy grew and was appointed Chief Executioner. 

Years later, Yehoshua’s father fell into disfavor with
Pharaoh. The king ordered the executioner to behead him and seize his wife,
children, and possessions, as was the cruel custom of the time. After beheading
his own father, Yehoshua met his mother, who revealed to him the truth of his
origins: how she had cast him into the river to save him, and how the big fish
at the banquet had swallowed him. He believed her—he remembered being told that
he had been found at a banquet inside a fish. Though he had not known until
that moment that the man he beheaded was his own father, he was overcome with
remorse and did teshuvah. From that time on, he was called 'Yehoshua bin
Nun', because in Aramaic, the word Nun means fish. 

And then my reactions which may have been audible: “That’s
insane!” “That’s impossible !” “Wait… is that real?” 

Now, full disclosure. When I read this, as you can tell,
something bothered me. 

I mean… it’s gripping, cinematic, spiritual—but also… what?! 

So I did what any good Jew does when a story sounds too epic
to be true—I started digging. 

And here’s what I found. 

This
Shabbat: A broken
letter. A severed soul. A redemption that spans lifetimes.

Join us for “The Severed Letter and the Unbroken Soul” — a journey from
Zimri to Rabbi Akiva and beyond. 

Opening:
Questions That Demand Answers 

What do we
do when we find a broken letter in a Sefer Torah? We stop. We call a sofer. We
declare the scroll pasul. One letter broken, and the Torah’s voice is silenced. 

But there’s
one shocking exception. 

In Parashat
Pinchas, Hashem rewards Pinchas with a berit shalom — a covenant of peace. Yet
in every kosher Sefer Torah, the word שָׁלוֹם is written with a vav
ketu’ah — a broken vav. Not a sofer’s error, not an oversight, but a
halachic requirement. 

Why here?
Why now? Why peace — a word that also appears in Hashem’s name — fractured? 

And why was
Pinchas, the hero of the moment, so hated by the people? Why did the mal’achei
hasharet, the ministering angels, seek to kill him? What did they see that
we don’t? 

Even more
puzzling: our Sages reveal that Zimri’s soul returns — not once, but twice —
once as Rabbi Akiva, and again as Ketiah bar Shalom both alive at the
same time. Moreso Zimri had been here before and failed and this was his
chance to fix things.  

What’s the
thread tying all this together? 

To
understand, we’ll journey together today. The inspiration for this class is a
66 page booklet I received last week from Rav Chaim Rosenblatt of Netiv
Aryeh in Jerusalem, it is based on the teachings of Rav Moshe
Wolfson zatzal. I have also interwoven, as is natural, my own thoughts based on
my limited understanding as I was taught by Rabbi Abittan Zsl.  

Lets call
this a tale of a soul. Shattered. Elevated. Redeemed. 

To me, it’s
the story of how Hashem never gives up on us.  

 “הִנְנִי נֹתֵן לוֹ אֶת־בְּרִיתִי שָׁלוֹם” 

“Behold, I
give him My covenant of peace.” 

(במדבר כ״ה:י״ב) 

But if you
look inside a Sefer Torah, you’ll notice something unusual: 

The word שָׁלוֹם
is written with a ו׳ קְטוּעָה—a broken vav. 

Why would
the Torah—which is תְּמוּמָה and שְׁלֵמָה—contain a broken letter? 

Two
men. Two missions. 

One
sword. One spell. 

One
rooted in truth. The other swallowed by ego. 

But
what happens when these two meet? 

Let’s
begin not in our parashah, but in the next: 

When
the Jewish army goes to war with Midyan, who do they find there? 

Bilʿam. 

He’s
not on the battlefield. 

He’s
not in the beit midrash. 

He’s
not prophesying. 

He’s
collecting payment — for his wicked advice: “Send in the Midyanite women. Break
their morality, and you break their protection.” 

And
it worked. 

24,000
men of Shevet Shimʿon died in a plague. 

176,000
were guilty of idolatry. 

Bilʿam was being paid per Jew
lost. 

But
Hashem doesn’t forget. 

Enter
Pinḥas,
leading the army. 

He,
the same man who halted the plague with a spear in last week’s parashah, now
brings justice with a sword. 

The
Midrash (Yalkut Shimʿoni 771) says Bilʿam tried to escape using sorcery — he flew into the air! But
Pinḥas
invoked the Divine Name, and Bilʿam crashed down. One clean stroke — and the man who thought
his mouth ruled the world was silenced forever. 

וַיַּהַרְגוּ אֶת־מַלְכֵי מִדְיָן עַל־חַלְלֵיהֶם… וְאֵת בִּלְעָם בֶּן־בְּעוֹר הָרְגוּ בֶּחָרֶב 

(במדבר ל״א:ח׳) 

“They
killed the kings of Midyan… and Bilʿam ben Beʿor they killed by sword.” 

Not
by spell. 

Not
by debate. 

By
sword — because truth cuts deeper than illusion. 

EDITORS NOTES  

When Souls Leave Early—And Still Lift Us 

The following is based on this week’s class and podcast.  

At
the end of Parashat Balak, we meet a hero—Pinḥas—who steps into a
collapsing world and halts a deadly plague. But according to the Mekubalim,
Pinḥas didn’t act alone. In the moment he entered the tent with spear in
hand, his soul left him in fright. And then… a miracle. The souls of his
uncles, Nadav and Avihu—who died decades earlier in Divine fire—returned to
strengthen him. They brought with them another soul: Eliyahu HaNavi. 

From
that moment forward, Pinḥas became Eliyahu. As we sing at every Brit Milah,
based on the words of the Zohar, Pinḥas hu Eliyahu. He lives still.
And his story tells us something extraordinary: sometimes, a soul that has
already reached its perfection doesn’t just ascend—it returns. Not for its
own sake, but to lift others. 

When Words Fail—And Silence Speaks 

There
are moments, like Aharon’s loss of his sons Nadav and Avihu, when words
simply do not exist. Vayidom Aharon. He was silent. 

And
I wonder: what questions filled that silence? 

· What
did we do to deserve this? 

· Was
this a punishment for the Golden Calf? 

· Can
I ever be whole again? 

These
are not academic questions. They are cries of the soul. I ask them too. 

This
isn’t a devar Torah of logic. It’s an exploration of neshamah—of
soul, emunah, and quiet strength. A space where we ask: Can a soul
be complete even in just a moment? Can a child’s brief life be a mission
fulfilled? 

Two Olam HaBa Realms: Chesed and Gevurah 

Kabbalah
teaches us there are two forms of Olam HaBa—the Next World: 

1. Olam HaBa of Chesed: a world of ascent, where souls grow
through mitzvot, Torah, and the merit of those left behind.  

2. Olam HaBa of Gevurah: a world of blinding closeness to the
Divine. A realm of stillness, where ascent ends—not from failure, but from
fulfillment.  

Some
souls don’t come to rise. They come already elevated. And they often leave
this world early—not as a loss, but as completion. 

The
Zohar calls them nitzotzin de-kadmūn letushbaḥta—sparks that precede
praise. Too pure for this world, they come for a moment, and return. 

Nadav and Avihu: Not a Fall, But a Flame 

The
Torah says a fire consumed Nadav and Avihu. But the Zohar teaches: it was
not punishment. It was devekut—a soul's longing for God so intense
it could no longer remain in the body. Their death was not a
failure. It was union. 

And
Aharon? He was silent. Not in despair—but in faith. 

That
silence echoes through generations of parents who have lost children. It is
not ignorance. It is surrender to something higher. 

Some Souls Are Already There 

When
a child is lost, the questions are too raw to answer. Why did this soul not
get a chance to grow? Why the pain, the diapers, the dreams left behind? 

But
the Arizal says: some souls do not need to ascend—because they are already
there. 

A
baby. A young tzaddik. A soul too radiant for this world to hold. Their
life, though brief, was complete. 

We
don’t always need to say Kaddish. Not because we lack faith—but because
these souls lift us. 

The Story of Pinḥas—and the Power of Ibur 

When
Pinḥas acted, his soul left him. But Nadav and Avihu returned—through ibur,
a temporary soul infusion. They didn’t come back for themselves. They came
to save the people. And with them came a third soul: Eliyahu. 

From
that moment, Pinḥas was no longer just a man—he was a vessel for eternity. 

A Soul That Lifts 

When
we lose someone so young, the world sees tragedy. 

But
the mekubalim suggest something different: 

“There
are souls that descend only to complete a small rectification.” — Sha’ar
HaGilgulim 

They
are not broken. They are not in need of us. 

We need them. Because their light still
shines. Because their mission didn’t end—it simply changed forms. 

A Child’s Soul That Elevates 

Last
month in Jerusalem, we heard from Ḥacham David Yosef שליט״א after our
family suffered a painful loss: 

“There’s
no need to say Kaddish. No need for added mitzvot. His neshamah is already
at the highest place.” 

At
the time, it felt like a door closing. 

Now
I understand—it was a door opening. 

This
was not a soul needing help. It was a soul helping us. 

The Silence That Lifts 

Vayidom Aharon. And David HaMelekh too,
after losing a child, stood up, changed his clothes, and went to pray.
Because he understood what we all long to understand: 

“I
shall go to him. But he shall not return to me.” (Shmuel II 12:23) 

This
is the Olam HaBa of Gevurah. Not a place of loss. A place of completion. A
place where the soul is so close to God, there’s nowhere left to climb. 

A Final Thought: The Soul’s Whisper 

So,
if you’re mourning a child, or grieving a tzaddik taken too soon, know
this: 

Not
every soul comes to stay. 

Some
come to ignite. 

To
whisper a dream. 

To
leave behind a light that never dims. 

They
are not gone. 

They
are near the Kisei HaKavod, lifting you, guiding you, whispering
strength into your soul. 

Just
like Nadav and Avihu lifted Pinḥas. 

Just
like Eliyahu still returns. 

Just
like our child—Shimon Chai, our light—who now lifts us. 

Shabbat
Shalom, 

David
Bibi         

  “As a reward for the forty-two korbanot that Balak offered, he merited that Rut
descended from him… from whom came Shlomo HaMelekh.” 

 Wait… what? 

 Balak—the man who tried to annihilate Am Yisrael—gets to be the great-grandfather of Mashiach? 

  If you told Balak that his offerings would lead to the birth of David HaMelekh, he would’ve canceled the korbanot and grilled the animals for himself. 

 He didn’t intend good. So why the reward?  

 וַיֵּשֶׁב יִשְׂרָאֵל
בַּשִּׁטִּים, 

וַיָּחֶל הָעָם לִזְנוֹת אֶל־בְּנוֹת מוֹאָב. 

— “And Yisrael dwelled in Shittim, and the people began to
stray after the daughters of Moav.” (בַּמִּדְבָּר כ״ה:א׳) 

One verse. 

No battle cries. 

Just the gentle pull of desire. Of loneliness. Of spiritual
disarmament.  

 Bilam, the wicked prophet, fails to curse Am Yisrael. But
before leaving, he whispers to Balak: 

 “אֱלֹקֵיהֶם
שֶׁל אֵלּוּ שׂוֹנֵא זִמָּה הוּא” 

— “Their G-d despises immorality.” (סנהדרין ק״ו) 

And with that advice, the Moabite plan begins. Royal
daughters of Midyan and Moav are sent to seduce the Israelites—not just with
beauty, but with hospitality, charm, and warmth. 

At first, they are selling textiles , and clothing - an old
woman at front.  

You want to see the better things - come to the back where there is a beautiful
young girl waiting she’s hospitable  

She offers wine. 

Then, herself . 

Then, a request: 

 “הִשְׁתַּחֲוֵה
לְפְעוֹר” 

— Bow to Pe’or. Just once. Just a formality. 

It wasn’t just זְנוּת. 

It was ideology cloaked in love. 

A theological ambush.  

“תָּבֹוא הָאֵם וּתְקַנֵּחַ צֹאָת בְּנָה” –

“Let the mother come and clean up the mess of her child.”

(Tanchuma, Chukat 8)

The child? Klal Yisrael, who sinned with the Egel HaZahav.

The mother? The Parah Adumah, the red heifer whose ashes bring purity.

But what’s the connection?

The Chet Ha’Egel wasn’t wild rebellion—it was panic wrapped in reason. Moshe was delayed. Maybe gone. They needed a leader. An intermediary. Their intentions were leshem Shamayim. But the Alexandrer Rebbe, the Yismach Yisrael, teaches:

“Sometimes the greatest mistake… is thinking we understand.”

That was their error.

They thought they were doing the right thing. They rationalized. They overreached.

So along comes the Parah Adumah—the antidote. A mitzvah that defies reason. A chok. A decree.

Even Shlomo HaMelekh, wisest of men, said:

“אָמַרְתִּי אֶחְכָּמָה – וְהִיא רְחוֹקָה מִמֶּנִּי” –

“I thought I could understand—but it is far from me.” (Kohelet 7:23)

🕗 July 4th | 7:30 AM Shacharit • Followed by Breakfast & Shiur

This Independence Day, come for breakfast—and stay for a battle that shook the heavens.

A mountain lifted, ants sent by Heaven, and the “worm of Yaakov” that crushed a giant.

Discover how Moshe Rabbeinu defeated Og with nothing but spirit, and how you can too.

Better than fireworks. Bigger than Bashan.

Parashat Chukat | Based on Yismach Yisrael, Alexander Rebbe

There’s a profound Midrash:

“תָּבֹוא הָאֵם וּתְקַנֵּחַ צֹאָת בְּנָה” –

“Let the mother come and clean up the mess of her child.”

(Tanchuma, Chukat 8)

The child? Klal Yisrael, who sinned with the Egel HaZahav.

The mother? The Parah Adumah, the red heifer whose ashes bring purity.

But what’s the connection?

The Chet Ha’Egel wasn’t wild rebellion—it was panic wrapped in reason. Moshe was delayed. Maybe gone. They needed a leader. An intermediary. Their intentions were leshem Shamayim. But the Alexandrer Rebbe, the Yismach Yisrael, teaches:

“Sometimes the greatest mistake… is thinking we understand.”

That was their error.

They thought they were doing the right thing. They rationalized. They overreached.

So along comes the Parah Adumah—the antidote. A mitzvah that defies reason. A chok. A decree.

Even Shlomo HaMelekh, wisest of men, said:

“אָמַרְתִּי אֶחְכָּמָה – וְהִיא רְחוֹקָה מִמֶּנִּי” –

“I thought I could understand—but it is far from me.” (Kohelet 7:23)

When a Roman philosopher mocked this mitzvah, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai replied:

“The corpse doesn’t defile, and the ashes don’t purify—it’s a decree of the King.” (Tanchuma Chukat 8)

Sometimes the highest faith is not to ask “why”—but to do.

The Parah teaches us that we serve not because it makes sense,

But because He said so.

That’s the tikkun for the Egel.

That’s Torah.

That’s true avodat Hashem.

וַתָּ֤מׇת שָׁם֙ מִרְיָ֔ם וַתִּקָּבֵ֖ר שָֽׁם׃

“Miryam died there and was buried there.”

(Bemidbar 20:1)

The Torah gives no hesped, no tears, no mourning.

Just a silence.

Then:

וְלֹא־הָיָ֥ה מַ֖יִם לָעֵדָ֑ה

“There was no water for the congregation.”

(20:2)

Chazal make the connection instantly.

📖 Ta’anit 9a teaches:

Three gifts sustained Israel in the midbar — the man, the ananei ha-kavod, and the well — in the merit of Moshe, Aharon, and Miryam.

When she died, the well stopped.

But why did water flow in her merit?

He responds three times, with three miracles:

1. The earth opens its mouth and swallows Korach and his household.

2. Fire from Heaven consumes the 250 men who bring unauthorized incense.

3. Aharon’s staff—a dry stick—miraculously buds, blossoms, and grows almonds.

Why three?

The Maharal explains:

Each punishment addressed a different level of rebellion—

—Against order,

—Against holiness,

—And against truth itself.

The Ari z”l adds something incredible.

He writes in Sha’ar HaGilgulim that Korach is a reincarnation of Kayin.

Just as Kayin couldn’t handle being surpassed by Hevel,

Korach couldn’t handle being surpassed by Aharon.

So this time, the ground doesn’t just swallow blood.

It opens its mouth, and swallows the man himself.

The Gemara in Bava Metzia 59a makes a bold statement:

“A person should always be careful to honor his wife, because blessing is only found in a man’s home on account of his wife.”

This is not mere sentiment—it’s Torah truth. The Gemara cites Avraham in Egypt: “And Avram was enriched… because of her,” referring to Sarah (Bereishit 12:16). From the outset, the Torah teaches that material blessing, like spiritual strength, flows through the woman of the home.

The Zohar (I:49b) goes further: The Shechinah itself rests upon a home only when there is harmony between husband and wife. She is called akeiret habayit—not just the “homemaker” in the modern sense, but the ikar, the essence of the Jewish home. She holds the key to its spiritual DNA.

But just as she can build, she can also destroy. And this week’s parashah, Korach, provides us with both extremes.

Suddenly she stopped and pointed at a corner and said: 'Grandpa, if the siren goes off while we are walking, we can go there… or there… but not there or there.' 

Three years old — and already calculating survival options. 

Cute? Yes. But chilling. 

You see, in Israel, childhood comes wrapped in barbed wire. In bunkers. In red alerts. It’s not just ma’aseh hayom — it’s the air they breathe. 

And now, a year later, the sirens haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve multiplied. And the missiles? They’re not coming from Gaza anymore. They’re coming from Persia. From Iran.  

 But maybe… just maybe… we’ve misunderstood the ending. 

 Maybe the story didn’t end in punishment… but in promise. 

 Because hidden in the rebuke, in the decree, in the wandering… is the whisper of eternity.  

 “And the
children of Israel were in the wilderness, and they found a man gathering
sticks on the Sabbath day…” 

וַיִּהְיוּ בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל בַּמִּדְבָּר, וַיִּמְצְאוּ אִישׁ
מְקֹשֵׁשׁ עֵצִים, בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת (במדבר ט״ו:ל״ב) 

He is brought before Moshe. He is warned. And when he
refuses to stop, he is judged — and ultimately executed. 

 “And the
entire assembly removed him to the outside of the camp and stoned him with
stones, and he died, as Hashem had commanded Moshe.” 

וַיּוֹצִיאוּ אֹתוֹ כָּל־הָעֵדָה אֶל־מִחוּץ לַמַּחֲנֶה, וַיִּרְגְּמוּ
אֹתוֹ בָאֲבָנִים וַיָּמֹת, כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה׳ אֶת־מֹשֶׁה (שם ט״ו:ל״ו) 

Immediately following this episode comes the mitzvah of
tzitzit: 

 “Speak to
the Children of Israel and say to them that they shall make for themselves
fringes on the corners of their garments…” 

דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאָמַרְתָּ אֲלֵהֶם, וְעָשׂוּ לָהֶם
צִיצִת עַל־כַּנְפֵי בִגְדֵיהֶם לְדֹרֹתָם… (שם ט״ו:ל״ח) 

Why this juxtaposition? 

Inspired by the Call of the Rishon LeTzion, Rav Shlomo Amar,
and Parshat Beha’alotcha 

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotcha, begins with a
command to Aharon HaKohen to light the Menorah — the eternal flame that
symbolizes divine wisdom, clarity, and spiritual illumination. And in a way
that only the Torah can, a deeper meaning flickers to life: 

בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ אֶת הַנֵּרוֹת – 'When you kindle the
lamps...' (Bamidbar 8:2) 

Rashi explains: “This teaches that the flame should rise on
its own.” 

The Menorah was not just a ritual. It was a spiritual
ignition. The Kohen lit the wick — but the flame had to rise independently.
That’s the model of true spiritual awakening: you can inspire someone, but the
light has to catch on its own and illuminate the world. 

This week, that flame is rising again — in the streets, on
the front lines, in homes, in bunkers, in the hearts of a people who are waking
up. 

From the Darkness of Exile to the Dawn of Redemption 

In a powerful letter written for this Shabbat, Rav Shlomo
Moshe Amar, Rishon LeTzion and former Chief Rabbi of Israel, declares with
clarity: 

'The time has come and the voice of redemption is being
heard — a voice of joy, a voice of salvation.' 

He describes an awakening among Israeli soldiers — secular,
unaffiliated, often raised far from tradition — who are grabbing hold of
Tehillim, wrapping Tefillin, and choosing to keep Shabbat on the battlefield.
He calls it “a mighty spiritual awakening.” 

But this awakening is not only theirs — it must be ours. 

The Enemy that Attacks When We Are Weak 

Later in this parsha, we are told what happens when the
light of the Menorah is not protected — when achdut (unity) breaks, when
complaint and confusion enter the camp: 

וַיְהִי הָעָם כְּמִתְאֹנְנִים – 'The people were like
those who seek a pretext...' (Bamidbar 11:1) 

And soon after, we hear about external threats: 

וְכִי־תָבֹאוּ מִלְחָמָה בְאַרְצְכֶם עַל־הַצַּר הַצֹּרֵר אֶתְכֶם 

'When you go to war in your land against an enemy who
oppresses you…' (Bamidbar 10:9) 

The Torah instructs us: blow the trumpets. Sound the alarm.
But not just for defense. The pasuk continues: 

וְנִזְכַּרְתֶּם לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם – “And you shall be
remembered before Hashem your God.” 

War, in the Torah’s language, is never just physical. It is
spiritual warfare, demanding spiritual responses. Sounding the trumpet is a
call to Heaven, a cry for divine remembrance. And the Menorah? It is the
answer: the light that drives away the darkness. 

Two Shabbatot Can Bring the Geulah 

Rav Amar emphasizes a deep teaching from the Gemara: 

'If the Jewish people keep two Shabbatot properly, they
will be immediately redeemed.' (Shabbat 118b) 

Why Shabbat? Because Shabbat is the Menorah of the week. It
is when we illuminate our homes with kedushah, with Torah, with peace. It
reconnects us with our identity and with each other. 

Every candle we light on Erev Shabbat is another lamp on the
Menorah — a declaration that our homes are not dark. That Am Yisrael is still
burning with holiness. That we are not giving up. 

A Call to Action: Join the Awakening 

Rav Amar calls on every family, community, and shul: 

“With great emotion and with joy, I call upon all the people
of Israel to take part in this sacred endeavor — to uplift Shabbat in their
homes and communities, with honor and love.” 

And this Shabbat, let us join that call. Let us light our
Menorahs — our candles, our homes, our children’s neshamot — and let the light
rise on its own. 

Let’s speak to our children about the power of Shabbat.
Let’s sing together at the table, bless our children with full hearts, speak
words of Torah, and pray for our brothers and sisters on the front lines. 

A Final Blessing 

May Hashem heal the wounded. May He return the captives. May
He protect our soldiers and civilians. And may our light — the light of faith,
of mitzvot, of Shabbat — rise higher and higher. 

בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ אֶת הַנֵּרוֹת — Light it… and let it rise. 

May we soon merit to see that great light — the rebuilding
of the Beit HaMikdash, the return of the Shechinah, and the arrival of the
final geulah, speedily in our days.  

In this week’s parashah, the Torah pauses its narrative to tell us something
astonishing: ְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה
עָנָו מְאֹד, מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל-פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה — “Now the man Moses
was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth”
(Bamidbar 12:3). 

This pasuk appears in the middle of the episode where Miriam and Aharon speak about Moshe Rabbeinu—about his separation from his wife and his unique relationship with Hashem. The Zerah Shimshon, with his characteristic brilliance, asks: Why is this the moment that the Torah reveals Moshe’s supreme humility?  

Miriam and Aharon had been discussing Moshe’s separation from his wife. Their argument was not malicious, but perhaps well-intentioned. They, too, were prophets, and yet they had not separated from their spouses. Why then did Moshe feel he needed to? 

Zerah Shimshon suggests a line of reasoning behind Moshe’s decision: Before Matan Torah, Hashem commanded all of Israel to separate from their spouses for three days. Why? Because Hashem was going to speak to them. And one who is to receive nevuah must be in a state of ritual purity. 

Moshe Rabbeinu, unlike other prophets, experienced nevuah constantly—at any time, without preparation. The Rambam (Yesodei HaTorah 7:6) explains: all prophetsrequire sleep, meditation, or dreams to receive prophecy—but not Moshe. Hashem
spoke to him “peh el peh” (mouth to mouth). Because of that constant readiness, Moshe needed to maintain permanent taharah, and thus separated. 

But Miriam and Aharon didn’t see it that way. Perhaps they felt that Moshe’s greatness wasn’t from intrinsic superiority, but because he had been chosen as the representative of the people. Had another been chosen, they too would have gone to the top of Har Sinai.  

When I first started working for my dad,
it was at a fiscally difficult time. His partner and cousin elected to be
bought out which created a huge financial burden, there were big loan
commitments and a new and very expensive showroom. 

My dad would hand me a paper on Monday
morning with an amount. This is what we need to deposit by Friday to cover the
week. It was a way to focus and keep things moving. 

Years later when all the commitments and
the loans were paid, he would still remind me every week of something which
stays with me today: 

“Don’t worry about making enough for the
year. Worry about making enough for the week. Because if you ask Hashem to
carry you through the whole year, you’ll forget to come back to Him tomorrow.
But if you ask for this week, you’ll come back next week. And the week after.
And every day, you’ll be in a relationship with Him.” 

He’d also tell us about the king with
two sons. One came once a year for his allowance. The other came every week.
The second son complained. “Why do I have to keep coming each week while my
brother only comes once a year? Why can’t you just give me everything at once?” 

And the king smiled and said: “Because I
love you. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice. Spending time with you
gives me great pleasure. So I only give you enough for a little while—because I
want you to come back.” 

That’s bitachon. Trust. Not just in the
outcome—but in the relationship. 

In Parshat Beha’alotecha, we read about
the manna—the miraculous bread that fell from heaven. Our Sages teach that
reading this portion is a segulah for parnassah, for sustenance. 

But the Mishnah Berurah warns us:
reading the words without internalizing their meaning is like carrying a check
without depositing it. 

The manna teaches us that hishtadlut—our
effort—is a vessel, but it is not the source. As Shlomo HaMelech writes in
Kohelet: 

“לא לחכמים לחם”—“Bread does not come to
the wise.” 

Rabbi Asher Weiss explains that the
portion of the manna reminds us our sustenance is ordained from Above. On Rosh
Hashanah, it is decreed precisely how much each person will earn for the year.
Our job is to do the necessary hishtadlus to create a vessel to contain
Hashem's blessing, while recognizing all along that it is not our effort that
brings success but Hashem's blessing alone. 

Some years back I wrote of a Shabbat
after season in Florida. I sat with some of the wealthiest men in our community
and they all started sharing their stories. To a man, they all testified, it
was not their brains, not their strategy, not even their hard work and long
hours which brought them wealth, it was in every case a convergence of
coincidences that could only be orchestrated by Heaven above. 

Rabbi Elimelech Biderman, quoting the
Tiferet Shmuel, finds this message in the menorah, which opens this week's
parashah. All seven lamps received the same amount of oil. But the “ner
maaravi”—the western lamp—burned longer. Why? Because Hashem willed it so.
Hishtadlus isn’t the decisive factor. The menorah itself teaches that when
Hashem desires, the same oil lasts longer. 

“המֲַרבֶּה לֹא הַעַדִיף וְהַמֲעִיט לֹא
הְחַסִיר” (Shemot 16:18) 

No matter how much manna they gathered,
they returned home to find that it exactly suited the needs of their family.
Rabbi Asher Weiss draws from this that effort alone does not determine results.
Hashem provides according to what is destined for each of us. 

This is one of the most radical truths
of Torah: You don’t control outcomes. You only control your vessel—your trust,
your awareness, your faith. 

The Talmud in Yoma 76a explains: Why did
the manna fall daily, not weekly or monthly? To teach Am Yisrael to rely on
Hashem every single day. A person who has no food for tomorrow will cry out to
Heaven with sincerity. 

And the Midrash Tanchuma says the same:
“So that Israel’s hearts would turn toward their Father in Heaven every day.” 

Rabbi Biderman shares another mashal:
the older a fish, a snake, or a chazir grows, the stronger it becomes, even
though they eat almost nothing. To teach us: “Man does not live on bread
alone...” 

The Zohar in Beshalach (62a) reveals
that the manna flowed through the sephirot into Olam HaBeri’ah. The Noam
Elimelech quotes R' Zusha: the question “What will we eat?” damages the
channel. Rabbi Asher Weiss echoes this idea, teaching that even the question
itself reflects a lack of bitachon and creates a blockage in the channels
through which blessing flows. Faith, on the other hand, keeps the pipeline
open. 

The story is told of R’ Zusha, who
touched a door and walked away. Rabbi Asher Weiss recounts this story as an
example of how true bitachon diminishes the need for hishtadlus. According to
one's level of trust, the vessel need not be larger than a light tap. 

Rabbi Biderman adds a story of a wealthy
man who refused to interrupt his lunch for a business deal. Why? Because the
goal of parnassah was to enjoy peace, not to chase more wealth. 

The Baal Shem Tov: Perfect bitachon
nullifies even heavenly decrees. 

The Chazon Ish: Trust cannot guarantee
specific outcomes. Sometimes judgment must run its course. 

Rabbi Asher Weiss clarifies: The two are
not contradictory. When one aligns fully with Hashem's will, as Rav Chaim
Volozhiner explains, nothing can harm him—not because of his will, but because
of the merger with Divine will. 

**Stories to Carry With You** 

📖 *The Baal Shem Tov and the Bitachon
Trade* 

The Baal Shem Tov once met a destitute
man who said, “I sold my only possession—my bitachon.” When asked what he
meant, the man explained, “I gave everything over to Hashem. I no longer worry,
because I trust completely that He will provide.” That same day, he was
miraculously repaid in silver and gold. To the Baal Shem Tov, it was a living
proof that complete surrender to Hashem's will does not leave one empty—it
fills one with blessing. 

📖 *R’ Aharon of Karlin and the Storm* 

R’ Aharon of Karlin was once traveling
with his students when they were caught in a violent storm. The wind howled,
the rain came down in sheets, and the wagon threatened to overturn. Panic
spread among his followers. But R’ Aharon simply began singing aloud, “Ein Od
Milvado—There is nothing but Him.” As the words filled the air, the storm began
to quiet. Within minutes, the winds died down. The students watched in awe as
the world returned to calm—not by meteorological pattern, but by spiritual
intervention born of bitachon. 

📖 *Rav Eliezer Pressman and the
Inheritance* 

Rav Eliezer Pressman zt'l was a
great talmid chacham from Bnei Brak. One day, his rebbetzin received a call
from the U.S. Embassy. Reb Eliezer had been left a large inheritance, and only
needed to come to Tel Aviv to sign. But he refused. He feared the environment
of Tel Aviv would compromise his standards of modesty and shemiras einayim. 

His rebbetzin politely asked if someone
from the embassy could come to Bnei Brak. They laughed. A few days later,
another call: a delegation of U.S. senators wanted to meet a 'very
religious Jew.' Could her husband be available? She agreed—so long as it
was bein hasedarim. The ambassador came, along with the senators—and the
documents. Rav Eliezer signed at home. 

As they left, an embassy official said,
“Even if you were the president’s son, we would not have done this for you.
We’ve never done this before.” 

But Heaven had. 

📖 *And my father’s story, where we
began...* 

He used to say: “Ask Hashem for enough
to get through this week. Not more. If you ask for the year, you won’t come
back until next year.” 

And he told us: The King gives each son
his stipend. But the son He loves, He only gives enough for a week. Because He
wants him to come back. To talk. To look Him in the eye. To reconnect. 

Bitachon isn’t a trick to get what you
want. It’s a life of closeness to Hashem. 

One breath. One prayer. One portion of
manna. 

The Toldos Yaakov Yosef, quoting the
Rambam, writes: If we had perfect bitachon, we’d be fed from Heaven. As Rabbi
Asher Weiss reminds us: The more we cultivate trust, the more blessing we can
receive. 

May we never be satisfied with asking
for enough for the year. May we come back each day—to speak, to ask, to thank.
May our daily “manna”—our health, our income, our peace—arrive without
blockage. And may we trust, not because we know the outcome—but because we know
the One Who holds it. 

Shabbat Shalom, 

David Bibi   

We all know that originally, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The Torah tells us that it was Hashem’s original intention for the bechor, the firstborn of each Jewish family, to serve in the Mishkan, just as they had done at Har Sinai—offering korbanot on behalf of the nation in preparation for Matan Torah.

But then came the chet ha’egel, the sin of the Golden Calf. And with that fall, the firstborn lost their sanctity. They were replaced by the Leviim—the only shevet who did not participate in the sin.

But as Rav Asher Weiss explains, this wasn’t a mere replacement. This was the unveiling of something deeper. Because in truth, the Tribe of Levi had always been destined for this role. Yaakov Avinu himself foresaw it.

(Loosely based on a shiur by Rabbi Pinchas Friedman, our
teacher, the Shvilei Pinchas on Parshat Naso)          

When The Kohen Lifts His Hands: The Mystery and Majesty of
Birkat Kohanim 

(Loosely based on a shiur by Rabbi Pinchas Friedman, our
teacher, the Shvilei Pinchas on Parshat Naso)  

There’s a well-worn story that’s made the rounds in every
community. It’s lighthearted, a bit absurd—but like many Jewish jokes, it
hides something deeper beneath the laughter. 

A man who only recently began coming to Synagogue, walks
into the rabbi’s office and pleads, “Rabbi, please—make me a Kohen.” 

The rabbi looks at him and says, “I’m sorry, I can’t just
make someone a Kohen.” 

The man says, “Please, rabbi! I’ll donate $100,000 to the
shul.” 

Still no. 

He comes back the next morning for Shaharit and at the end
of services tells the Rabbi: “Two hundred thousand!” 

Then again, the day after: “One million dollars. Just make
me a Kohen.” 

Finally, the rabbi asks, “Why is this so important to
you?” 

And the man answers, “Because my grandfather was a Kohen.
My father was a Kohen. And I want to be a Kohen too.” 

Of course, as a direct descendant of Aharon HaKohen. he
already was. He just didn’t understand what that meant. 

I’m not a Kohen. My grandfather David Gindi was a Kohen.
My grandchildren Yosef and Eliyahu, (may Hashem bless them and all our
children and grandchildren, Ken Yirbu), are Kohanim. But I stand where
most of us stand—facing the Kohanim with open hands, receiving the
blessing. I usually cup my right hand slightly above my left, as if to
physically receive what the Kohanim are transmitting envisioning the
blessing coming from Hashem and reflecting to us from the raised hands of
the Kohanim under their taletim.  

And in our synagogues, we are blessed—truly blessed—to
have Birkat Kohanim every single day. No need to wait for Yom Tov. No
need for a festival crowd or the drama of white robes under a sea of
tallitot. Our Kohanim bless daily, wrapped in their own tallitot, their
fingers lifted and split in that ancient, otherworldly shape, channeling
something holy. And the rest of us? We focus. We quiet ourselves. We
prepare to receive. 

It is one of the holiest, most consistent moments of our
day—and like so many sacred things, it’s easy to miss its power because
it happens so regularly. But in this week’s parsha, Parshat Nasso, the
Torah opens a window and reminds us just what this blessing is. 

Aharon’s Eternal Role 

Hashem says to Moshe: “כֹּה תְבָרְכוּ אֶת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל,
אָמוֹר לָהֶם…” “Thus shall you bless the children of Israel: Say to
them…” 

And then come the words of the Birkat Kohanim: 

“יְבָרֶכְךָ ה׳ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ 

יָאֵר ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ 

יִשָּׂא ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם” 

This command is given to Aharon and his sons—the Kohanim.
But it is more than a ritual. It is Hashem entrusting human beings to
carry His blessing. 

Rashi notes that on the very day the Mishkan was
inaugurated, Aharon raised his hands and blessed the people. And at that
moment, he was granted the lifelong—and eternal—right to serve as
Hashem’s emissary for blessing. 

Why Aharon? 

The Zohar (Metzora 53b) answers beautifully. Moshe was the
shushvina d’Malka—the King’s attendant. Aharon was the shushvina
d’Matronita—the Queen’s companion. Moshe stood for Hashem; Aharon stood
for the people. 

And Aharon loved his people. As Hillel says in Pirkei
Avot: “הוי מתלמידיו של אהרן, אוהב שלום ורודף שלום, אוהב את הבריות ומקרבן לתורה”
- “Be of the disciples of Aharon—loving peace, pursuing peace, loving
people, and drawing them near to Torah.” 

He brought husbands and wives back together. He reconciled
feuding neighbors. He found the soul or the pintele Yid in every Jew and
coaxed it back to light. 

That’s why when he died, the Torah says: “And all the
House of Israel wept for Aharon for thirty days.” 

Rashi notes: the men and the women. Everyone. Because
everyone felt that loss. 

So, when Aharon lifted his hands to bless the people, it
wasn’t just Hashem channeling through him. It was also Aharon channeling
the people’s deepest hopes and longings upward. Aharon’s empathy, love
and caring made it a two way street  

The Structure of a Blessing 

This priestly blessing is brief—only three verses. But its
structure is layered with meaning: 

• Three
verses 

• Fifteen
words 

• Sixty
letters 

The Ba’al HaTurim writes that the three verses correspond
to the three Avot: 

• “יְבָרֶכְךָ”
– Avraham, the source of chesed and abundance 

• “יָאֵר”
– Yitzchak, clarity and gevurah 

• “יִשָּׂא”
– Yaakov, synthesis, peace, and wholeness 

The fifteen words, says the Chida quoting Rabbi Yehuda
HaChassid, recall the fifteen years when Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov
were all alive at once. (And yes, we did discuss the math and how some
say only 13 years). During those years, the three patriarchs studied
Torah together—fifteen hours a day. (I imagine at first Avraham and
Yishak studies with the cribs of Yaakov and Esav nearby). In those years,
they sustained the world with their unity, preparing the foundation for
the Shechinah to dwell in Israel. 

And the sixty letters? Those represent the sixty masechtot
of the Oral Torah—Torah Sheb’al Peh. The Midrash (Shir HaShirim Rabbah
6:8) refers to these as the “sixty queens.”  

Rav Amram Gaon explains that we recite Birkat Kohanim
immediately after Birchot HaTorah each morning to teach us that anyone
who toils in all sixty tractates is worthy of this holy blessing. 

So, this blessing is not just an utterance. It is a
structure—an echo of the Avot, of Sinai, of Torah Sheb’al Peh, and of the
inner Mishkan of the Jewish soul. 

A Wedding at Sinai 

The Mishnah in Ta’anit tells us that Matan Torah was not
just a revelation—it was a wedding. The verse in Shir HaShirim says: “בְּיוֹם
חֲתֻנָּתוֹ זֶה מַתָּן תּוֹרָה, וּבְיוֹם שִׂמְחַת לִבּוֹ זֶה בִּנְיַן בֵּית
הַמִּקְדָּשׁ” 

The Torah was the ketubah. 

The wealth of Egypt? The money. 

The Mishkan? The home. 

When Hashem says: “ואביא אתכם אלי” “And I brought you to
Me,” it is the culmination of a courtship. 

The relationship became visible in the Beit HaMikdash. The
Talmud (Yoma 54a) says that the Kohanim would pull back the parochet and
show the people the keruvim—golden figures atop the Aron, male and
female, embracing like lovers. They would say: “ראו
חיבתכם לפני המקום כחיבת זכר ונקבה” “See how beloved you are before
Hashem, like the love of bride and groom.” 

The Shechinah dwelled not in abstraction—but in
relationship, closeness, affection. 

The Name י״ה – and the Fire Without It 

The Zohar explains that when the Kohanim raise their
hands, the Divine Name י״ה—Yud and Hei—is revealed between them. 

This is the Shechinah. 

Rav Akiva, in Sotah 17a, teaches something we have all
heard at a sheva berachot: “איש ואשה זכו – שכינה ביניהם; לא זכו – אש
אוכלתן” - If a husband and wife are worthy, the Shechinah rests between
them. If not, they are consumed by fire. Why? 

Because איש (man) contains a י; yud and אשה
(woman) contains a Heh ה. Together, they form the name י–ה. Without that,
all that remains is fire. And a double fire at that!  

So too with Israel and the Beit HaMikdash. When we
merited, Hashem’s Name dwelled within us. But when we sinned, the Name
withdrew—and the Mikdash was left to fire. 

As it says in Tehillim: “שִׁלְּחוּ בָאֵשׁ
מִקְדָּשֶׁךָ” “They set Your sanctuary ablaze.” 

Making the Blessings Come Alive 

We hear these words every day. But how often do we live
them? Let’s slow them down—see what each verse is really saying. 

1. “יְבָרֶכְךָ ה׳ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ” – Material Blessing 

“May Hashem bless you and protect you.” 

Rashi says: 

• “Bless
you” with wealth. 

• “Protect
you” from losing it. 

This is the blessing of livelihood, of stability, of
security. It’s our parnassah and our protection from fear. 

We can think of Avraham Avinu here. His open tent, his
endless giving, his faith that what he gave would always be replenished. 

When you hear this verse, you might whisper after Amen:
בִּזְכוּת
אַבְרָהָם אָבִינוּ – In the merit of Abraham our Father!  

2. “יָאֵר ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ” – Spiritual
Light 

“May Hashem shine His face upon you and grant you grace.” 

This is the light of understanding. The warmth of Torah.
The clarity of insight and the subtle, indescribable quality we call
chein—grace. 

Think of Yitzchak at the Akeydah. The one who saw through
blindness. The one whose inner fire burned so intensely that others
mistook it for silence. 

Whisper:
, בִּזְכוּת יִצְחָק
אָבִינוּ - In the merit of Issac our Father! 

3. “יִשָּׂא ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם” –
Peace and Wholeness 

“May Hashem lift His face toward you and grant you peace.” 

This is relationship. Connection. Not just an absence of
conflict—but the presence of integration, inner calm, trust in the
unfolding of your life. 

Yaakov Avinu comes to mind here. The man of synthesis who
brought together the chesed of Avraham and the gevurah of Yishak. The one
who became Israel. The father of all tribes. The one who brought the
vision together. 

Whisper:
, בִּזְכוּת יַעֲקֹב
אָבִינוּ - In the merit of Jacob our Father! 

Why Run When G-d Is Here? 

It never ceases to amaze me how many people run to Sadikim
and Mekubalim for blessings. And of course, there is greatness and light
among our sages. But when people would ask Rabbi Abittan about going to
this one or that one for a blessing, he would say every blessing is good,
especially from a Talmid Haham, but he would remind us as we often forget
something. 

Hashem Himself says: “וַאֲנִי אֲבָרְכֵם” “I will bless
them.” 

You don’t need a plane ticket to receive a blessing from
Heaven. You don’t need to pay a pidyon or make a huge donation. You need
to show up to the synagogue. You need to quiet yourself. Open your hands.
Be present. 

If your synagogue doesn’t have Birkat Kohanim daily, visit
a Sephardic Synagogue, take a trip to Israel or come pray with me. We
definitely take longer but you can’t ask for a better blessing. Birkat
Kohanim is not about ritual. It’s about relationship. 

The hands of the Kohanim are raised. The letters are
spoken. And Heaven responds. 

May we all merit to stand beneath those hands—beneath that
light—and to receive a blessing that is more than words. 

A blessing that is a home. A peace. A Presence. 

Shabbat Shalom, David Bibi          

Sometimes the path that looks harder is the one we are meant to choose.

And when we don’t choose it — we can be left with nothing.

It’s a lesson about courage, surrender, and knowing when to say:

“Hashem, I don’t know. I need You to show me the way.”

And it all begins with a kiss.

🌬 Part 1: The Spirit That Walked With Her

In Ruth chapter 3, Naomi gives Ruth instructions for one of the most spiritually charged encounters in Tanach:

“Wash yourself, anoint yourself, dress, and go down to the threshing floor… then go and uncover his feet and lie there. He will tell you what to do.”

But there’s something astonishing hidden in the text itself.

In Ruth 3:3, the pasuk says:

וירדתי — “I will go down.”

But we read it — kri — as:

וירדת — “You will go down.”

That’s not an accident. That’s a revelation.

The written form implies that Naomi herself is descending — even though Ruth is the one physically moving.

Why?

Because Naomi wasn’t just sending Ruth. She was sending her ruach — her spiritual presence.

Naomi, through Ruach HaKodesh, projected her soul into Ruth’s mission.

In Kabbalistic terms, Naomi’s ruach became enclothed in Ruth’s nefesh.

She was saying, “Take me with you.” And Ruth did.

But this wasn’t the first time Naomi used her spiritual power.

💋 Part 2: The Kiss of Discernment

Back in Ruth chapter 1, Naomi stands with Ruth and Orpah.

Both are widowed. Both are loyal. Both say:

“We will return with you to your people.”

But Naomi senses something deeper.

According to the Bnei Yissaschar, Naomi had Ruach HaKodesh, but it was cloudy. She knew that one of the two women before her carried the soul spark of Mashiach — but she didn’t know which.

So what does she do?

She kisses them both.

Not as a farewell — but as a spiritual test. An invitation for the ruach to settle.

And what happens?

“Orpah kissed her… and Ruth clung to her.”

Naomi understands. Ruth is the vessel. Orpah is not.

And then Naomi does something almost hidden in the text:

She kisses Orpah again.

Why?

To withdraw the ruach. To sever the spiritual connection that had momentarily hovered over Orpah.

Two paths now diverge:

One leads to royalty.

The other to ruin.

🩸 Part 3: The Collapse of Orpah

Chazal tell us what happened that very night.

Orpah gave herself to a hundred men and even a dog.

And from that night, a son was born: Goliath.

How did she fall so far?

Because when ruach departs, it creates a vacuum.

And the kelipot — the husks of impurity — rush in.

Orpah had stood at the edge of greatness. And when the spark was pulled back, she collapsed.

Her name tells the story:

“Orpah” — from oref, the back of the neck.

She turned her back.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 93b) gives her another name: Harafah — from ר.פ.ה, to slacken, to be trampled.

The Midrash says she was trampled by men — physically, yes — but more importantly, spiritually.

What was almost kedushah became tumah.

🌾 Part 4: Ruth the Galitit

In contrast, Ruth is given another name in the same Gemara: Galitit — from the root ג.ל.י, to reveal.

• Ruth reveals what is hidden.

• She reveals the soul in the shadows.

• She reveals emunah, chesed, and ultimately kingship.

Where Orpah turned, Ruth clung.

From her came David, the shepherd-king of Israel.

👶 Part 5: Goliath — A Name from the Past

Now comes a haunting possibility.

What if Orpah, even after her fall, remembered the ruach?

What if, on some level, she wanted to reclaim it — through her son?

She had seen Ruth called Galitit. She had tasted greatness.

And now she names her child: Goliath (גלית) — same root.

Could it be that she tried to channel Ruth’s spark into her own lineage?

If so, the tragedy deepens.

Because the name did carry power — but it was twisted.

The spark became distorted.

What Ruth revealed in holiness, Goliath exposed in arrogance.

The light she tried to steal… turned dark.

⚔ Part 6: The Battle of Bloodlines

Now the story returns — not to Moav, but to the valley of Elah.

David — son of Ruth.

Goliath — son of Orpah.

Goliath mocks Hashem.

David says: “You come to me with a sword and spear — I come to you in the Name of Hashem.”

A stone flies from David’s sling.

It strikes Goliath in the forehead — the seat of false da’at and pride.

He falls on his face — the posture of submission Orpah refused.

But David isn’t finished.

He draws Goliath’s own sword — and severs his head…

From the back of the neck — the oref.

🔄 Part 7: Midah K’neged Midah

Midrash Ruth Rabbah (2:9) says:

“Because Orpah turned her back to Naomi, her grandson Goliath was killed at the neck.”

It’s precise.

• She turned her neck.

• He was struck in the head… and finished at the neck.

This is midah k’neged midah — measure for measure.

The very part she turned… is the part that falls.

And the sword that finishes it?

Goliath’s own.

In the world of tikkun, even tumah must serve kedushah.

👑 Part 8: The Choices We All Face

This is not just a story. It’s a mirror.

Every one of us stands at a crossroads — Ruth or Orpah.

• Do we cling to something holy, even when it’s hard?

• Or do we turn toward comfort, and lose everything?

And we don’t always know in the moment which path is which.

Sometimes, it takes a kiss.

Sometimes, a collapse.

Sometimes, a generation.

But every soul has a moment of decision.

Ruth clung — and gave us David.

Orpah turned — and gave us Goliath.

🛤 Part 9: When We Can’t See the Way

And perhaps the greatest lesson of all:

Even Naomi, with her Ruach HaKodesh, couldn’t see clearly.

She couldn’t tell which woman carried the spark.

She had to wait. She had to let Heaven reveal it.

And so do we.

We all come to moments where we can’t see the way forward.

We look at two choices — two paths, two people, two directions — and we don’t know.

And that’s when we must say:

“Hashem… I don’t know. I need You to show me the way.”

That’s not weakness. That’s the beginning of clarity.

As David later sang:

“הודיעני ה’ דרכך, הורני בארח מישור”

“Hashem, make known to me Your path. Teach me the straight way.” (Tehillim 25:4)

We must be willing to admit that our vision is limited — and Heaven will answer.

🎬 Conclusion

So next time you hear the story of David and Goliath…

Don’t just see a boy and a giant.

See two women in Moav.

See a kiss that gave… and a kiss that reclaimed.

See a forehead struck… a neck severed… and a sword lifted — not in anger, but in redemption.

See a choice made… a spark lost… and a soul reclaimed.

Because the spark that walked with Naomi still walks.

And when we don’t know what to do… we can whisper,

“Hashem, I need You.”

And the story will begin again.

“At midnight I rise to thank You” (Psalm 119:62).

Why that verse? Why now?

That moment—his reminder—opened a door in my mind. A doorway back in time. A window into a mystery.

Because David HaMelech, the sweet singer of Israel, didn’t simply thank God at midnight—he awoke at midnight. And not because his eyes happened to open. But because something woke him. Something called him.

The Gemara in Berachot 3b paints the scene.

David hung a harp above his bed. And when midnight arrived—a northern wind would blow. The harp’s strings would stir. A note would sound. And David would rise. Immediately. Without hesitation. And begin to study Torah until dawn.

No alarm clock. No servant knocking on his door.

Just a note. A whisper of Heaven. A tremor in the night that only David could hear.

And I ask you: What kind of man is woken by the wind? What kind of soul hears music when the rest of the world hears silence?

Every year on Shavuot, as we crown the Torah anew at Har
Sinai, another quiet coronation takes place—the birth and passing of David
HaMelech. We read Megillat Ruth not just for its tale of kindness and
conversion, but because it concludes with David’s genealogy, tracing the roots
of Israel’s true kingship back to a Moabite outsider. 

Unlike ancient monarchies that claimed divine ancestry, the
Jewish king is chosen for righteousness. David's origins are deeply human, even
painfully so. His great-grandmother Ruth was a convert from Moav, a nation
seemingly barred from entering Kahal Hashem. The Torah states: 'Lo yavo
Ammoni uMoavi b’kahal Hashem'—yet the Oral Torah clarifies this
prohibition applied only to males, due to Moav's lack of hospitality, a trait
not expected of women at the time. Boaz, acting as posek and judge, ruled
publicly that Ruth was permitted. Yet not everyone accepted that psak, and
controversy lingered for generations. 

The Midrash tells us Boaz died the night after marrying
Ruth. Some saw this as Divine disapproval. Others whispered that perhaps Boaz’s
psak was flawed. Even his grandson Yishai—David’s father—began to doubt. He
separated from his wife Nitzevet bat Adael, fearing his lineage was
halachically compromised. In a complex halachic arrangement, he attempted to
father a child through a maidservant, only for Nitzevet to secretly take her
place. From that union, David was born—in silence, in secrecy. 

David was not accepted as a full son. Treated as a safek
mamzer, he was relegated to the margins, raised in shame. As he writes in
Tehillim, “I was a stranger to my brothers, an alien to my mother’s sons.”
(Tehillim 69:9) 

Yet in those lonely fields, David connected to Hashem with
an open heart. His rejection became resilience. His pain became poetry. Sefer
Tehillim is the soul-song of every Jew in exile—our yearning, our heartbreak,
our hope. 

When Shmuel HaNavi was sent to anoint the next king, he came
to Beit Lechem and met Yishai’s sons. All seven were presented. None were
chosen. Shmuel asked, “Ha’tammu ha’nearim?”—not 'Are these all your
sons?' but 'Are the lads finished?'—a question that left space
for the one not counted. Yishai replied, “There remains the youngest—he’s
tending sheep.” When David arrived, Hashem declared: “Kum meshacheihu—Arise and
anoint him, for this is the one.” 

Even then, David’s path was not smooth. When he brought food
to his brothers on the battlefield, Eliav rebuked him harshly. David responded,
“What have I done now? It was just a question.” (Shmuel I 17:29) This phrase
captures David’s life—a constant struggle to justify his presence. 

David’s victory over Golyat didn’t erase the doubts. Even
Shaul asked, “Whose son is this youth?” though he had already met David. The
Midrash explains: Shaul knew who David was, but now, sensing his greatness, he
wondered—could this boy be royal? Could he be Mashiach? 

David’s spirit brought peace to Shaul, but also triggered
his downfall. The pasuk says, “Ruach Hashem departed from Shaul, and a
distressing spirit tormented him.” David’s music soothed him—but perhaps it was
more than music. It was the ruach tova of a soul that had suffered and
sanctified that suffering. 

The bond between David and Yonatan is one of the most
powerful in Tanach. Yonatan, heir to the throne, saw in David the soul Hashem
had chosen. He stripped his royal garments and gave them to David—not out of
defeat, but submission to truth. The Zohar sees their bond as representing the
sefirot of tiferet and yesod—a sacred fusion in preparation for eternal
kingship. 

David hid in caves, fled for his life, and twice spared
Shaul, never raising a hand against him. When Shaul and Yonatan died, David
wept: “Eich naflu giborim—How the mighty have fallen.” 

Finally, David was crowned—first in Chevron, then over all
Israel. The shepherd. The servant. The suspected mamzer. Now Melech Yisrael. 

So why tell this story on Shavuot? 

Because Shavuot is not just Zman Matan Torateinu. It is Zman
Matan Malchuteinu. The giving of Torah is not only about revelation—it’s about
transformation. David wasn’t chosen despite his suffering, but through it.
Torah doesn’t belong only to the perfect—it belongs to those who cling to
Hashem through pain. 

The redemptive arc of David’s life mirrors the path of
Mashiach, who emerges through spiritual concealment. From Lot’s daughters and
Yehuda and Tamar, to Ruth and Boaz, and finally Yishai and Nitzevet—each step
is cloaked in scandal, yet woven with divine purpose. Kabbalah teaches that the
soul of Mashiach must be hidden, lest the Satan destroy it. This is hester
panim—Divine concealment as protection. 

The soul of Mashiach descends into spiritual obscurity to
redeem it from within. He is not a king of polished pedigree, but one who
elevates the fallen. As Rav Kook wrote, “Out of the crooked timber of humanity,
Mashiach will carve the pillars of redemption.” 

And now us. We’ve waited not 28 years—but 2,000. We, too,
have been exiled, accused, misunderstood. But we didn’t stop singing. Like
David, we turned exile into encounter. 

So this Shavuot, when we crown the Torah anew, let us also
crown the David within us—the one who clings to Hashem through doubt, who sings
through suffering, who waits not in despair, but in emunah. 

May we be worthy to hear, soon and in our days:
Kum meshacheihu—Arise and anoint him.

Because the world is ready.

And because we are still singing. 

 As the
Rabbis have told us that Shimon Chai’s Neshama is already at the highest levels
of Shamayim it was suggested than anything should be given LeIluy Nishmat – his
four great grandfathers, my dad Yosef ben Esther, my father in Law Yosef
Mordechai ben Rachel, Rabbanit Ilana Alouf’s dad, Nissim ben Leah and Rabbi
Alouf’s father Yehuda gamil ben chatun – ve’et ben, ben, ben beno and their
great grandson Shimon Chai Ben Moriah Bracha Devora   

“וידבר ה’ אל משה בהר סיני לאמר…”

“And Hashem spoke to Moshe on Mount Sinai, saying…”

Rashi immediately asks: Why does the Torah specify Har Sinai in this context? Isn’t the entire Torah from Sinai? What’s the Torah trying to emphasize by attaching these particular laws—Shemitah, the sabbatical year—to the mountain?

And that’s our first clue: we’re not just being given agricultural guidelines. We’re being invited to climb back to the mountain.

 Lamah nigara? Why should we be left behind? 

 Amalek attacked us on Pesach Sheni. And when you
hear that, it’s like — whoa. 

Of all the days Amalek could choose to attack… He chooses
the day that screams, “It’s never too late.”   

 Amalek stands for doubt. 

The Torah hints at it: the word “Amalek” shares the same gematria as safek — doubt. 

He’s the voice that whispers, 

“You missed your shot.” 

“You’re not worthy.” 

“You can’t fix it.”  

 When Amalek attacks, Moshe goes up on a hill. And what does he do? 

 He raises his hands. 

 And the Torah says: “When Moshe’s hands were raised, Israel prevailed. And when he lowered them, Amalek prevailed.” 

 Now the Mishnah in Rosh Hashanah asks the obvious question: 

Was it Moshe’s hands that won the war? 

 And the answer? No. 

It was when the people looked up — when they lifted their hearts to Hashem — that’s when they had strength. 

 Moshe’s hands were a signal. A reminder. Look up.
Don’t fall into despair. This battle isn’t yours alone.  

 So what is Pesach Sheni really? 

 Perhaps it’s the most anti-Amalek day in the whole Torah. 

 Because Amalek says: “You’re done.” 

And Pesach Sheni says: “You’ve just begun.” 

 Amalek says: “You missed it.” 

Pesach Sheni says: “Come back in.” 

Amalek tells you: “You’ll never get out of this.” 

And Pesach Sheni says: “There’s always a second chance.” 

  And that’s how we fight Amalek. With emunah. With second chances. With lifted hands — and lifted hearts.   

To all the wives, mothers, and grandmothers who build homes of kindness and strength…

And personally—to my own wife, on the occasion of our 40th wedding anniversary.
Forty years of building, of growing, of learning what love really means—together.  

And on this special day, I’m thinking of our dear friends: Elliot and Sheffi, and Cary and Nancy—also celebrating forty years of marriage today. Ken yirbu—may their love continue to multiply, inspire, and shine.  

This episode is for all of you. 

Now let’s talk about a love that’s not just romantic—but redemptive. 

Love like this… 

There’s a kind of love the Torah calls holy. 

Yesterday we read Parshat Kedoshim—“You shall be holy, for I, Hashem your God, am holy.” And as we mark Mother’s Day, the timing feels just right. Because the Torah doesn’t just teach us how to believe—it teaches us how to love. And what we find… is that real love isn't about feelings. It's about structure. It’s about presence. It’s about giving.  

We’ll follow their story from Parshat Shemini, through the intervening portions of Tazria and Metzora, all the way to this weeks Acharei Mot and Kedoshim—and reframe their deaths not as tragedy, but as the highest form of intimacy and divine love.  

Along the way, we’ll weave together Tanach, Chazal, and the breathtaking vision of the Bat Ayin, who teaches us about the transformative power of a lev nishbar, a broken heart.   

(Based on the Teachings of the Shvilei Pinchas, our teacher, Rabbi Pinchas Friedman) 

 They’re all about strange skin conditions — tzara’at — rituals of impurity, offerings involving birds and wood and wool and hyssop. 

  But hidden within all this is a breathtaking teaching — a teaching about speech, pride, humility, and ultimately: finding our center point. 

First, a little background: 

The Torah teaches    

אָדָ֗ם כִּֽי־יִהְיֶ֤ה
בְעוֹר־בְּשָׂרוֹ֙ שְׂאֵ֤ת אֽוֹ־סַפַּ֙חַת֙ א֣וֹ בַהֶ֔רֶת וְהָיָ֥ה בְעוֹר־בְּשָׂר֖וֹ
לְנֶ֣גַע צָרָ֑עַת וְהוּבָא֙ אֶל־אַהֲרֹ֣ן הַכֹּהֵ֔ן א֛וֹ אֶל־אַחַ֥ד מִבָּנָ֖יו הַכֹּהֲנִֽים׃ 

When a person has on the skin of the body a swelling, a rash, or a discoloration, and it develops into a scaly affection on the skin of the body, it shall be
reported to Aaron the priest or to one of his sons, the priests.   

YOM HAATZMA’UT page 297

 Today, we celebrate not only a date on the calendar or a declaration from 1948—we celebrate the beginning of the fulfillment of a 2,000-year-old dream. A dream born in the heart of Yaakov Avinu. Carried by David HaMelech. Whispered in the wind of every exile. And now, with Hashem’s kindness, unfolding before our very eyes in Eretz Yisrael. 

  Let us journey together through history, Torah, exile, and return, guided by the
teachings of HaRav Rabbi Shabtai Sabato . His powerful words help us understand what we’re really celebrating today.  

Based on the Teachings of:

The Peri Tzaddik (פרי צדיק) is the name of a famous sefer written by Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin (1823–1900). He was a major Chassidic thinker, originally from a Lithuanian, non-Chassidic background, but later became a close disciple of the Izbicer Rebbe, the Mei HaShiloach. 

AND Sefer Chayyim VaChesed by Rebbe Chaim Chaykl of Amdur (ר' חיים חייקל מאמדור), one of the great early Chassidic Rebbes from Lithuania, a talmid of the Maggid of Mezeritch, and a powerful force in spreading Chassidut into the Lithuanian world. It appears that the sefer was printed posthumously, in 1891 — long after his petirah — based on manuscripts and traditions from his students. 

 This Rosh Chodesh Iyar, we journey into the secret of healing through small, mindful actions. Discover how listening, da’at, and refining our daily life connect
even the simplest moments back to Hashem — and reveal hidden light.  

Chodesh Iyar, we journey into the secret of healing through small, mindful
actions. Discover how listening, da’at, and refining our daily life connect
even the simplest moments back to Hashem — and reveal hidden light.  

The Torah's Midpoints — More Than Math In Vayikra 10:16, we find the phrase: 'ואת שעיר
החטאת דרש דרש משה והנה שרף' “Moshe inquired insistently about the goat
of the sin-offering, and behold, it had been burned.' 

Now here’s
the gematria-level nugget: the word 'דרש' appears twice
— and this double appearance marks the midpoint of the words of the Torah. 

Then in Vayikra 11:42, in the list of forbidden creeping creatures, we read: 'כל
הולך על גחון' “Anything that moves on its belly...' The letter 'vav'
in the word 'גחון' is the midpoint of the letters of the Torah — and it’s traditionally written larger than normal. The Gemara in Kiddushin 30a and Maseches Sofrim teach us that our sages were called 'sofrim' — counters — precisely because they counted every letter and word. 

But why would Hashem arrange for these midpoints to land here?

And it
begins with a story. 

A 24-year-old boy is sitting on the train with his father. 

Suddenly, he turns to his dad and shouts out, excitedly: 

“Dad, Dad, look outside the window! The trees—they’re rushing past us!” 

 An elderly couple sitting nearby looks over, clearly confused and even pitying. Why is a grown man acting like a child?    

A few minutes later, the boy shouts again:    

 “Dad! The clouds—they’re running with us!” 

  The father just smiles. The elderly couple can’t help themselves. One of them leans over and whispers: “Maybe you should take your son to see a doctor…?” 

 The father smiles gently and says,  

 “Actually—we just came from the doctor.”    

 “You see, my son has been blind since birth. And this—this is the first day of his life that he’s ever been able to see.”     

And even if we don’t say the whole LeShem Yichud, many of us still whisper a familiar line: Vihi Noam Hashem Elokeinu aleinu, u’ma’aseh yadeinu konenah aleinu, u’ma’aseh yadeinu konenehu.

We say it before the mitzvah. But if you look at the pasuk, it’s actually a prayer for what comes after—after the work is done, after the effort is complete.

So why begin with it?

Let’s explore that—because I think it reveals something profound about how we bring Hashem into our lives. Not just when we finish a project or succeed in something meaningful—but from the very first moment we take action.

And to understand that, we have to look at the very first time this pasuk was ever spoken—by none other than Moshe Rabbeinu.

This week’s parsha—Parshat Shemini—

וַֽיְהִי֙ בַּיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁמִינִ֔י קָרָ֣א מֹשֶׁ֔ה לְאַהֲרֹ֖ן וּלְבָנָ֑יו וּלְזִקְנֵ֖י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃

On the eighth day Moses called Aaron and his sons, and the elders of Israel.

Inspired by Rabbeynu Bachya and Ramban, please join me on a journey—a journey through numbers. But not just any numbers. Two numbers that sit quietly in our tradition, and yet, they pulse with transcendent meaning.

Eight. And fifty.

Let’s start here: 

This Pesach, a simple question turned into a deep journey. The Torah tells us in
Parshat Bo:    

“You shall take the blood and place it on the lintel and the two doorposts…”  

  “And Hashem will pass through to
strike Egypt… and He will see the blood… and He will not allow the destroyer to
enter to strike.”  

 “You shall observe this matter as a
decree for yourself and for your children forever.” 

וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם אֶת־הַדָּבָר הַזֶּה לְחָק־לְךָ וּלְבָנֶיךָ
עַד־עוֹלָם. (שמות י”ב, כד) 

So,
the question is obvious: What is this eternal mitzvah of placing blood on our
doorposts? 

We
did it once in Egypt. We talk about it every year at the seder. But we never
actually do it again. Why not?  

Based
on the Teachings of The Shvilei Pinchas:  

The
Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh and the Chatam Sofer both ask: if it’s supposed to be an
eternal statute, where’s the ongoing practice? The Ramban and Ibn Ezra suggest
it refers only to the korban Pesach, not the blood on the doors—but the flow of
the pesukim makes that difficult, as we see the command for the future korban
Pesach in the next paragraph.  

Adding
to that question, let us ask what is the blood that was placed on the door?  

The
command we received required each family or household of Benai Yisrael four
days before the exodus on Shabbat Hagadol, to take a sheep for the korban. We
must keep in mind that this wasn’t a private ritual—it was a public act of
defiance. The sheep was the Egyptian god, and Bnei Yisrael were told to tie it
to their bedposts for four days. Imagine trying something like this in India
today where they worship cows in some places or even taking an in adamant
object like a large cross from the church and tying it to your bed in a deeply
Catholic country a century ago—not as decoration, but with the stated intent to
slaughter it, smear its blood on your door, and burn it in front of the
believers. That’s what our ancestors did in Egypt. It wasn’t just an act of
sacrifice—it was an act of both defiance and identity. Facing their oppressors,
they declared: We are no longer yours. We belong to Hashem. 

But
let us recall the pasuk from Yechezkel.  

 “By your blood you shall live.” 

וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי; וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ
חֲיִי. (יחזקאל ט”ז, ו) 

Why
the repetition? 

And
when do you recall most often saying this verse? 

Most
likely at a Brit Mila.  

Rashi,
quoting the Mechilta, brings us deeper. The Jews in Egypt had no merits for
redemption, so Hashem gave them two mitzvot to perform: 

Brit
milah and korban Pesach. 

Both
involved blood. Both were deeply personal and national. Both required courage. 

The
Targum Yonatan and the Zohar go even further: the blood of the korban and the
blood of the brit were mixed together and smeared on the doorposts. And in that
merit, Hashem passed over the Jewish homes. 

 B’damayich chayi. B’damayich chayi. 

What
is so special about these two misvot aseh which distinguish them from all other
positive commandments. They are the only two positive commandments in the
entire Torah that, if neglected, carry the punishment of karet—being cut off
from the people. We read in the Torah  

וְעָרֵל זָכָר אֲשֶׁר לֹא־יִמּוֹל אֶת־בְּשַׂר עָרְלָתוֹ
וְנִכְרְתָה הַנֶּפֶשׁ הַהִוא מֵעַמֶּיהָ אֶת־בְּרִיתִי הֵפַר. (בראשית י”ז, י”ד) 

 וְהָאִישׁ
אֲשֶׁר הוּא טָהוֹר וּבְדֶרֶךְ לֹא הָיָה וְחָדַל לַעֲשׂוֹת הַפֶּסַח וְנִכְרְתָה
הַנֶּפֶשׁ הַהִוא מֵעַמֶּיהָ. (במדבר ט’, י”ג) 

Why
these two of all the positive commandments? Because they are acts of identity.
They declare: I belong to Hashem. 

There
is a question our rabbis ask 

Why
does the paragraph of Shema Yisrael and VeAhavta precede the paragraph of
V’haya im shamoa 

Our
rabbis explain that  

 • Shema
Yisrael—accepting Hashem’s Sovereignty (ol malchut shamayim). 

 • V’haya
im shamoa—accepting His mitzvot (ol mitzvot). 

And
accepting the yoke of Heaven must precede the accepting of the misvot  

Now,
the nation of Israel came into being during the plague of the firstborn they
were referred to as (Shemot 4,22): “בני בכורי ישראל”, my firstborn son, Israel.
This is why they were commanded to place on their doorways the blood of the
korban pesach – and the blood of the brit milah.  

The
blood of the milah represents acceptance of the yoke of Heaven—the placing of
the Almighty’s seal upon our flesh. 

The
blood of the korban pesach, the slaughtering of the Egyptian’s g-d for Hashem’s
sake, represents the yoke of mitzvot.  

These
two mitzvot form the basis for the entire Torah—the acceptance of Hashem’s
Sovereignty and the acceptance of His mitzvot. In their merit, we were taken
out of Egypt, chosen to be His people and given His Torah. Consequently,
whoever chooses not to fulfill these two commandments, reveals that he has no
interest in accepting the yoke of Heaven and the yoke of mitzvot. Thus, he
deserves being cut off from any part and legacy amidst the people of Israel—the
punishment of “karet.” 

The
Vilna Gaon explains that each person faces two types of Yetzer Hara: 

 • The
internal: laziness, desire, apathy. 

 • The
external: peer pressure, ridicule, societal values. 

Brit
milah represents the internal commitment—a private covenant.  

Korban
Pesach is the external stand—slaughtering Egypt’s god in public. 

Which
brings us to our original question mentioned above concerning the placement of
the blood on the lintel and the doorposts: the verse states that this decree is
to be observed forever; yet, we don’t find this observance in fact. 

The
Chiddushei HaRim then shares a dazzling idea: we do still put something on our
doorposts.  

And
that something represents something similar to the blood of the brit and the
blood of the lamb. It represents the acceptance of the ol malchut Shamayim and
ol mitzvot.  

And
what is it? It’s called… the mezuzah. 

The
mezuzah contains the two paragraphs of Shema: 

 • Shema
Yisrael—accepting Hashem’s Sovereignty (ol malchut shamayim). 

 • V’haya
im shamoa—accepting His mitzvot (ol mitzvot). 

As
we noted: The Gr”a teaches us that we all possess an internal yetzer harah
preventing us from serving Hashem 

Additionally,
there is an external yetzer harah—the negative influences of the external
environment surrounding us. This yetzer takes the form of nonobservant people
who chase after the temptations and nonsense of this world, and who taunt and
make fun of those who serve Hashem. Here the Gr”a states 

 ולכן נקבע מזוזה
על פתח ביתו להגן עליו“  

in
other words, the mezuzah is a protective device against the external yetzer the
negative influences surrounding us. 

At
the same time, we see clearly in the Gemarah avodah zara that, unlike human
kings who are protected by their guards, Hashem Himself guards His people — He
surrounds and protects us, always. 

The
Zohar elaborates B0 36 (my summary) “In many places the Holy One, blessed be
He, shows compassion for His children. A person builds a house, and Hashem says
to him: ‘Write My Name and place it at your entrance, and you may go inside
your house — and I will sit outside at your entrance to guard you.’” 

And
The Zohar Chadash The mezuzah is not just a symbol — it’s spiritual protection.
Even destructive forces pause when they see Hashem’s Name guarding the door.
That’s why we’re encouraged to always have a proper mezuzah on our homes. 

All
of these sources clearly emphasize that the mezuzah constitutes an internal
protection of our homes. The Darkei Moshe (Yoreh Deah 286,4) in the name of
Shu”t Maharam ( Retenberg 

“I
am certain that any house equipped with a proper, halachic mezuzah, is beyond
the power of any harmful force”. 

It
seems clear that the Gr”a means to teach that the mezuzah protects against the
external yetzer horah—people chasing after their hearts’ desires and mocking
Torah-observant Jews. For, when a man steps outside his home to make a living,
he is likely to encounter such negative influences; those influences may then
follow him back into his home and have deleterious effects upon him and his
family members. 

It
is for this reason, that the Almighty commanded the Jew to place a mezuzah at
the entrance to his home, containing the paragraph of acceptance of the yoke of
Heaven and the paragraph of the acceptance of the yoke of mitzvot. By reminding
him to accept these two yokes upon himself when he leaves to protect from the
external and when he enters from the internal yeser harah.  

So
the secret to reenacting and reimagining the two bloods of the doorposts of
Misrayim lies in the Mezuzah. 

These
two paragraphs are written inside the Mezuzah and affixed to our doorposts
declaring our acceptance of the yoke of Heaven and the yoke of Misvot — just
like the blood placed on the doorposts in Egypt. The Mezuzah stands as a Chok
Olam — an eternal decree — reminding us of that covenant.  

When
we leave our home, we pass by the Mezuzah and kiss it, invoking protection from
the external Yetzer Hara. When we return home, it stands as a shield from the
inner Yetzer Hara. It’s a moment to realign and remember. 

Each
glance, each kiss, each moment of intention by the Mezuzah becomes a reminder
of our commitment — just as the blood on the doorposts was a sign of our
readiness to follow Hashem into the unknown. It echoes the verse: “ובדמייך חיי” — “By your blood you shall live.” 

So,
every time we enter or leave our home, we should recall this eternal message.
And in that merit — in the zechut of honoring the Mezuzah with intention — may
we be blessed, like our ancestors, with protection, clarity, and strength
(gevurah), and be brought closer to redemption. 

How
much should we value the gift of the Mezuzah 

I am
reminded of a story: —a modern one. A
man builds in the Hamptons the most luxurious home imaginable. Every detail
handpicked. Dozens of doors, each framed in elegant wood. 

When
it came time to purchase mezuzot, the rabbi explained: 

“There’s
a basic option, a better option, and a mehudar—highest level.” 

After
splurging on every other detail of the house, the man chose the cheapest
mezuzot. But for the cases? He bought magnificent designer pieces—because
that’s what guests would see. 

On
the day of installation, the rabbi arrived—but the mezuzot were already on the
doors. 

Surprised,
he asked, “Who put them up?” 

The
contractor walked in, grinning. “I knew Jews hang those boxes on the doorposts,
so I took care of it. And I saved all the warranty cards that were inside the
boxes - they looked important.” 

He
handed the rabbi a bag. 

Inside
were the klafim—the real mezuzot. Still rolled up. Never inserted. The house
was full of stunning boxes. But the mitzvah itself? Never fulfilled. 

There’s
a story told about the Baal Shem Tov, who once traveled to a remote village and
visited the home of a simple Jew. The man had built his house with his own
hands—fine wood, elegant beams, everything carefully crafted. When the Baal
Shem Tov arrived, he noticed something missing. 

There
was no mezuzah. 

The
man proudly explained, “I carved the doorway myself—it’s strong and beautiful.” 

The
Baal Shem Tov smiled. 

“The
wood may be strong—but a mezuzah guards not the doorway. It guards the soul
inside.” 

Form
without substance is just wood. The true protection—the blood on the
doorpost—comes from what’s inside the case. 

Every
time we pass a mezuzah, we’re renewing our identity. Saying: 

I
accept Hashem’s kingship. 

I
accept His mitzvot. 

B’damayich
chayi. B’damayich chayi. 

And
in that merit may Hashem protect us both in going and coming. 

Shabbat
Shalom and Chag Sameyach  

David
Bibi  

I wrote and recorded this Tuesday. On Wednesday, the
President suspended the tariffs for 90 days and the stock market shot up a
record amount for a single day …. what will be tomorow? 

Trust in Hashem—A Test for Our Generation 

Rabbi Abittan, Zecher sadik livracha,
often reminded us that the great test of our generation is bitachon—trust
in Hashem. He would say that because of the comforts we’ve been blessed with,
it’s easy to fall into the illusion of self-sufficiency. The Torah warns us of
this very mindset: 

'Kochi v’otzem yadi asah li et
hachayil hazeh—My strength and the might of my hand made me all this
wealth' (Devarim 8:17). 

Even if we don’t say those words, we
often live them—forgetting that all we have is a gift from Hashem. And
so, sometimes Hashem gently—or not so gently—reminds us that He is in
charge. 

Just recently, someone panicking at the
tariff announcement and how it would affect his business, reached out to tell
me he had listened to a shiur I gave on the 7th of Nisan in 2020, just as COVID
was beginning. It was our first Zoom class through the Safra Synagogue. The
world had shut down. Orders were canceled. Work stopped. And we were asking
ourselves: What now? 

I shared then an idea based on the Haggadah: 

'Bechol dor vador omdim aleinu
lechaloteinu'—In every generation, they rise up to destroy us. 

But there’s another layer. It’s not only
that an enemy rises—it’s that we feel like the world is ending. And it
seems that it’s not once in every generation; rather in our days, almost every
year we get hit with something that makes us feel the world is ending. Sometimes it’s local, sometimes global and sometimes
personal, but the pattern repeats. 

We’ve lived it. After 9/11. During the
Second Intifada. The financial crisis of 2008. Superstorm Sandy. COVID. And
most recently, the horrific events of Shemini Atzeret or October 7th. And in
each moment, the same fear returns: What will be tomorrow? 

The Midrash teaches (Shemot
Rabbah 3:5): 

'Hakadosh Baruch Hu mit’aveh
le’tefilatan shel tzaddikim'—Hashem desires the prayers of the
righteous. 

Why? Because in moments of crisis, we
remember. We turn back. We cry out, 'Ein lanu al mi lehisha’en ella al
Avinu Shebashamayim'—We have no one to rely on but our Father in
Heaven. 

That first Chol HaMoed Pesach of 2020,
we buried so many. It was a nightmare. And yet—we are here. We survived.
Like our grandparents who endured the Spanish Flu after WWI. Like generations
before them, who faced plagues, pogroms, exile, and still clung to their
emunah. 

Our community in particular has long
been blessed in business. From the days of retail peddling, to wholesale, to
international importing and investing in real estate. And today, that same
world is shaking—tariffs, supply chain breakdowns, volatility. Deals that once
brought profit now bring loss. It feels uncertain. And yet, maybe Hashem is
whispering again: I’m still in control. 

The pasuk in Tehillim (20:8)
says: 'Eleh barechev v’eleh basusim, va’anachnu b’shem Hashem Elokeinu
nazkir'—Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we call out in
the name of Hashem our God. 

This is the message of bitachon.
And it’s not just theological—it’s historical. In Parashat Beshalach, as
Bnei Yisrael stand before the sea, chased by the Egyptians, they cry out in
fear. And Hashem says: 

'Ma titzak elai? Daber el Bnei
Yisrael v’yisa’u'—Why are you crying to Me? Tell Bnei Yisrael to move
forward (Shemot 14:15). 

Sometimes emunah means standing
still; sometimes it means marching forward even when we can’t see the path.
But always it means knowing Who is leading us. 

Even in October 7th’s darkness, we saw Yad
Hashem—through miracles, survival, unity, and resolve. And perhaps that’s
the silver lining: we remembered that we are not alone. 

So with all this in mind, I revisited
that class from Nisan 2020, and I am going to post it again, not just as a record of what we went through, but
as a reminder of what we always come back to: Hashem lo ya’azvenu—Hashem
will not abandon us. 

May this
reflection be a zechut for clarity, courage, and geulah, bimheira
v’yameinu, amen.  

We begin Vayikra with a mystery:

וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה—with a small aleph.

Chazal teach that Moshe, in his humility, wanted to write וַיִּקָּר—like a casual encounter. But Hashem insisted: no, write וַיִּקְרָא—with a calling. A term of love, of nearness.

Because Hashem valued Moshe—even more than Moshe valued himself.

And that’s the secret of geulah, of redemption.

It’s not just about being taken out of Egypt.

It’s about being told: “You are worthy. You are wanted. I choose you.”

Let me tell you a story.

A grandfather gives his grandson an old watch and sends him to get it appraised.

At the jewelry store: $200.

At the pawn shop: $60, after bargaining.

Then, at a museum, the same watch is valued at $50,000.

The stunned grandson returns, and the grandfather says:

“You see? The watch never changed. But different people saw different worth. Some saw junk. One saw treasure. That’s the lesson—your value doesn’t depend on others’ opinions. It depends on who truly understands you.”

And that’s exactly the message of the Seder.

When we say בַּעֲבוּר זֶה עָשָׂה ה׳ לִי—“Because of this, Hashem did for me”—we’re not telling a story about the past.

We’re standing in the present, in the relationship.

We’re declaring: Hashem sees my worth. He chose me. He brought me out of Egypt.

But here’s the thing: you don’t show up to the Seder cold.

You prepare.

Because when someone of infinite value invites you to a night of connection—

You don’t just toss something together. You get your mind ready. Your heart. Your soul.

We prepare for the Seder not just to clean our homes, but to clear space inside—so we can remember who we are, and who we belong to.

So don’t just get ready for a meal.

Get ready to be seen.

Get ready to be chosen—again.

Get ready to remember what Hashem has always known:

You are priceless.

Be sure to listen to the class - Its All About Me ! 

Parshat Pikudei begins with Moses giving a
complete accounting of all the raw materials collected for the building of the
mishkan along with details on how these materials were used. Realizing that we
already were given this information we ask why the need for an official audit
which seems to be a redundancy. We know that audits typically follow
questionable actions or accusations. So what led to this audit?  

The Midrash tell us: “They gazed after
Moses” – People criticized Moses. They
used to say to one another, “Look at that neck. Look at those legs. Moses is
eating and drinking what belongs to us. All that he has belongs to us.” The
other would reply: “A man who is in charge of the work of the Sanctuary – what
do you expect? Do you expect that he should not get rich?” As soon as he heard
this, Moses replied, “By your life, as soon as the Sanctuary is complete, I
will make a full reckoning with you.” 

We wonder was this idle chatter widespread
or perhaps only the conversation of a very few? And how could they accuse Moses
of living off the communal till? Ironically they accuse Moses of taking what is
theirs and using those funds to purchase and eat the choicest cuts of meats. I
find the accusation itself the most ludicrous. Recall that the man who ascended
Mount Sinai in order to receive the Torah on their behalf and following the
incident of the Golden Calf when Hashem tells Moses that he will destroy these
people returns to beg forgiveness for them did not eat or drink for forty days
and forty nights.  

What do they think that he was making up
for lost time and opportunity? Why even give substance to this ridiculous
chatter by responding to it? 

We can add to the question based on
another midrash which asks, “Why did Moshe make an accounting with them when
Hashem trusted him, as the pasuk says: 

לֹא־כֵ֖ן עַבְדִּ֣י
מֹשֶׁ֑ה בְּכׇל־בֵּיתִ֖י נֶאֱמָ֥ן הֽוּא׃  

 “My
servant, Moshe, is not that way; in all My house he is trustworthy” If he has
G-d’s trust, is that not more than enough testimony to his honesty?  

I would suggest that Moses may have not
been looking to defend himself. After all, he was neither the storage manager,
nor the artisan, nor the seamstress. Where others might have opportunity to
pilfer a bit of gold here or some silk there, he had none. So perhaps in
seeming to defend himself, he was really looking to avoid any accusation ever
being made against Bezalel, Aholiav and their teams of artisans and he was
setting an example to future leaders involved in any sort of public funding.  

Moshe Rabbeynu’s actions teach us that a
leader must avoid even the slightest hint of impropriety especially when it
comes to the public’s money and their trust.  

A Subtle Purity: The Jewelry Still Worn

In Shemot 35:22, the Torah describes the donations to the
Mishkan:

“וַיָּבֹאוּ הָאֲנָשִׁים עַל־הַנָּשִׁים כֹּל נְדִיב לֵב הֵבִיאוּ
חָח וָנֶזֶם וְטַבַּעַת וְכוּמָז...”
“The men came upon the women—all whose hearts moved them brought brooches,
earrings, rings, and pendants…”

Rashi, based on Chazal, explains “עַל הַנָּשִׁים” as “with
the women,” suggesting the men came closely following them. But the Meshech
Chochma (on this pasuk) notices that Onkelos translates it
literally: “while the jewelry was still on the women” (guvraya al
neshaya).

Why emphasize that the jewelry was still being worn?

The Meshech Chochma brings in a powerful halachic framework.
From the laws of Isurei HaMizbeyach, if an object is merely declared for
Avodah Zarah, it's not inherently forbidden. But if any action—like
placing it or shaping it—is done in the service of idolatry, the item becomes
assur (forbidden).

At the time of the Golden Calf, Bnei Yisrael (or at least
the Erev Rav) said: “אֵלֶּה אֱלֹהֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל”—“These are your
gods.” That plural language reflects a desire for multiple powers, and their
contributions of gold were accompanied by physical acts of creation. This could
render any gold connected to the sin invalid for use in holy service.

Enter the brilliance of the women. When Aharon asked
for their jewelry to delay the Egel, they refused to give. That gold
remained pure.

So when it came time to build the Mishkan, the men didn't
just bring gold. They brought the women themselves—with the jewelry still on
them—to show clearly: this gold was never involved, never tainted. It
was still “על הנשים”—on the women, not given over for sin.

A Thought to Take With Us

From this detail, we learn that not participating in
a wrong is itself a form of powerful avodah. The women’s refusal to give to the
Egel became the very foundation of their gift’s kosher status for the
Mishkan.

A Story to Illustrate

Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach zt”l once walked into a room full
of people discussing whether certain donations could be accepted by a yeshiva
due to questionable sources. He said gently, “Sometimes the most valuable gift
is not the donation itself, but the way it was held back when it could have
gone to the wrong place.”

Just like the gold that remained on the women until it could
be offered to Hashem.

 This class will explore Bezalel’s unique role through some key themes: his wisdom, and I would like to specifically explore the power of the Aleph Bet on a level joining the spiritual and the physical, his connection to Hur and the concept of Ibbur and reincarnation or the Ruach of Chur entering him at the age of 13, his approach to constructing the Mishkan which seemed to differ from Moshe’s instructions where we will review an approach from Above to Below, vs Building up Below to Above, And perhaps the personal lessons we can learn from Besalel

I recall the rabbi, Rabbi Abittan A’H, would go to Hollywood Gym in Long Beach, surrounded by weightlifters, bodybuilders, and surfers. Dressed in his white shirt, black suit pants, and all-black walking shoes, he would walk on the treadmill. Sometimes, he would even teach the people around him. He explained to us that when one keeps in mind the precept of Ushmartem et nafshotechem—the mitzvah to guard one’s health—and that maintaining physical well-being enables a person to learn Torah better and fulfill mitzvot more effectively, then even every minute spent in the gym becomes a mitzvah. It is our thoughts and intentions that convert the mundane into the holy. We see this same principle in this week’s parashah.

This week, we read Parashat Vayakhel, which details the construction of the Mishkan. Among the vessels described is the kiyor—the laver used by the kohanim to wash before performing their sacred duties.

The Torah first introduces the kiyor in Parashat Ki Tisa:

(יז) וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃ (יח) וְעָשִׂ֜יתָ כִּיּ֥וֹר נְחֹ֛שֶׁת וְכַנּ֥וֹ נְחֹ֖שֶׁת לְרָחְצָ֑ה וְנָתַתָּ֣ אֹת֗וֹ בֵּֽין־אֹ֤הֶל מוֹעֵד֙ וּבֵ֣ין הַמִּזְבֵּ֔חַ וְנָתַתָּ֥ שָׁ֖מָּה מָֽיִם׃ (יט) וְרָחֲצ֛וּ אַהֲרֹ֥ן וּבָנָ֖יו מִמֶּ֑נּוּ אֶת־יְדֵיהֶ֖ם וְאֶת־רַגְלֵיהֶֽם׃ (כ) בְּבֹאָ֞ם אֶל־אֹ֧הֶל מוֹעֵ֛ד יִרְחֲצוּ־מַ֖יִם וְלֹ֣א יָמֻ֑תוּ א֣וֹ בְגִשְׁתָּ֤ם אֶל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֙חַ֙ לְשָׁרֵ֔ת לְהַקְטִ֥יר אִשֶּׁ֖ה לַֽיהוָֽה׃ 

“Hashem spoke to Moshe, saying: Make a laver of copper and its base of copper, for washing, and place it between the Tent of Meeting and the altar. Put water in it. Aharon and his sons shall wash their hands and feet from it. When they enter the Tent of Meeting, they shall wash with water so that they do not die, or when they approach the altar to serve, to burn a fire-offering to Hashem” (Exodus 30:17-20).

Later, at the end of Vayakhel, the Torah specifies the material used for the kiyor:

וַיַּ֗עַשׂ אֵ֚ת הַכִּיּ֣וֹר נְחֹ֔שֶׁת וְאֵ֖ת כַּנּ֣וֹ נְחֹ֑שֶׁת בְּמַרְאֹת֙ הַצֹּ֣בְאֹ֔ת אֲשֶׁ֣ר צָֽבְא֔וּ פֶּ֖תַח אֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵֽד

“He made the laver of copper and its base of copper, from the mirrors of the women who massed at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting” (Exodus 38:8).

It is striking that the Torah specifies the source of the copper for the kiyor, a detail not mentioned for other Mishkan vessels. These mirrors, rather than being an ordinary donation, carried deep symbolic significance.

The Significance of the Mirrors

In ancient times, mirrors were not made of glass but of polished metal, typically copper, silver, or bronze, worked into a reflective surface. Mirrors have long been associated with beauty and self-admiration, raising an important question: Why would objects symbolizing vanity be used to construct a vessel for spiritual purification?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash, provides a powerful explanation. He notes that Moshe initially hesitated to accept the mirrors, seeing them as instruments of the yetzer hara (inclination toward desire). However, Hashem instructed him otherwise:

“Accept them, for they are more beloved to Me than anything else. Through these mirrors, the women of Israel ensured the continuation of the nation in Egypt. When their husbands were exhausted from grueling labor, the women would bring them food and drink, and using these mirrors, they would endear themselves to their husbands, rekindling their affection. As a result, they bore many children and strengthened the Jewish people.”

These mirrors, once symbols of personal adornment, were transformed into tools of devotion, unity, and perseverance. Because of their role in sustaining Klal Yisrael, they were deemed worthy of being repurposed for the kiyor, a vessel that prepared the kohanim for avodat Hashem.

Elevating the Mundane

This story teaches us a profound lesson: even the most seemingly superficial objects can be sanctified and given deeper meaning. The mirrors, originally used for personal beauty, became a means of preserving Jewish continuity and ultimately became part of the Mishkan.

Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky illustrates this concept with a personal story about his grandfather, Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetzky.

After my grandfather, Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetzky, of blessed memory, had officially retired from his position as Rosh Yeshiva of Mesivta Torah Voda’ath and had moved to Monsey, New York, he still remained very active not only in the needs of Klal Yisrael as a whole but in discussing Torah with almost any student of Torah who would cross his threshold.

One afternoon a young scholar came to speak to my grandfather and share his novella on the Talmud with him. As he sat at the table and was about to begin sharing his self-concocted discourse, my grandmother entered the room with a freshly baked piece of cake for my grandfather and the guest.

Before my grandfather had a chance to thank the Rebbitzin, the young man, obviously steeped in his own thoughts, flippantly discarded her generous offering. “That’s all right,” he said, “but I already ate. I really don’t need another shtikel (piece) of cake.”

My grandfather remained silently shocked. He said nothing. The rebbitzen returned to the kitchen and then the young man began to speak.

“I would like to share with the Rosh Yeshiva a shtikel (piece of) Torah thought that I formulated relating to a sugya in the Gemara in Yevamos.”

My grandfather was quiet and then responded. “That’s all right,” he said, “but I already heard Torah on that sugya. I really don’t need another shtikel Torah on that sugya.”

When my grandfather saw that the boy realized that Rav Yaakov was chiding him on his reckless indifference to the Rebbitzin, he went on to explain: “You see, that piece of cake was her shtikel Torah. That was something that she prided herself in. That is how she wanted to make me and you feel comfortable. One has to appreciate that as well!”

Just as the mirrors were elevated from objects of vanity to sacred service, we, too, can infuse holiness into the mundane. A simple act of kindness, a well-intended offering, or even a meal prepared with love can become an act of avodat Hashem.

Contemporary Examples of Making the Mundane Holy

1. Shabbat Candles – A simple flame, ordinarily used for light, becomes a symbol of peace and sanctity when lit for Shabbat.

2. Challah Baking – Preparing bread, a basic sustenance, is transformed into an act of kedushah when baked for Shabbat and accompanied by the mitzvah of hafrashat challah.

3. Work and Livelihood – Earning a living is a necessity, but when done honestly and with kavana (intention) to provide for one’s family and support Torah and chesed, it becomes a holy pursuit.

4. Everyday Speech – Conversations can be mundane or filled with gossip, but they can also be infused with words of encouragement, Torah, and truth, turning speech into a tool for kedushah.

5. Technology and Media – Phones and the internet can be distractions, yet they can also be used to spread Torah, connect with loved ones, and facilitate acts of kindness.

As rabbi Abittan explained even time can be elevated to kedusha through intent whether at the gym, working to earn a living or a day out with family at the park. 

The lesson of the kiyor is clear: It is not the object itself that defines its holiness, but the purpose it serves. If the mirrors of Egypt could be transformed into a sacred vessel, then every aspect of our lives—no matter how ordinary—has the potential to become a means of divine service.

We will divide the class into four parts  

Each will take us deeper into the perasha  

1. We will begin by focusing on the power of speech and how words create spiritual realities. 

2. If in fact words create reality, how does that relate to tefilah and my words?  

3. Peeling away the top layer – Why is Moshe’s name missing ? 

4. Peeling away some more layers – What is the Tikun – the repair in Moshe’s name missing?   

Final Takeaways – What Do We Walk Away With? Through our journey in Parashat Tetzaveh, we uncovered deep layers of meaning—how words create reality, the power of tefillah, the hidden presence of Moshe, and the ultimate tikun (repair) in his name being omitted. Now, let’s bring it home. 

1. Speech is Power—Use it Wisely. 

o Our words are not just sounds; they shape the world. 

o Whether it’s Moshe’s plea (“erase me from Your book”), Yaakov’s curse, or the Spies’ negative report, we see again and again that words have real consequences. 

o We must ask: What world are we creating with our speech? Are we building or destroying? 

2. Tefillah Works—Even When We Don’t See It. 

o We learned that every prayer is heard—whether answered immediately, saved for the right time (like Moshe’s 515 prayers unlocking Esther’s salvation), or redirected in ways we don’t understand. 

o If Chizkiyahu could overturn a decree of death, and if a simple salesman’s prayer could override the nation’s needs, imagine what our tefillot can do. 

3. Hashem is Present—Even When Hidden. 

o Moshe’s absence in Tetzaveh reminds us that hidden does not mean gone. 

o Just like Hashem’s name is missing in Megillat Esther, Moshe’s name is missing here—but his presence is deeply felt. 

o In life, we don’t always see Hashem’s hand clearly, but He is guiding everything behind the scenes. 

4. Moshe’s Name Missing is Not a Punishment—It’s the Ultimate Praise. 

o We saw how Moshe was a tikun (rectification) for Noach, who remained passive during the Flood. 

o Noach accepted the decree; Moshe fought for his people, even at the cost of his own existence. 

o By omitting Moshe’s name in Tetzaveh, the Torah highlights that he wasn’t erased—he transcended self. 

5. The Greatest Legacy is to Share Torah. 

o Noach kept his knowledge to himself, but Moshe taught, led, and fought for his people. 

o Torah is meant to be given over, like olive oil that lights the Menorah. 

o What we learn, we must share. Whether through words, actions, or
inspiration, we are part of the chain. 

Bringing It into Our Lives  

• Are we mindful of the power of our speech? 
• Do we pray with the belief that every tefillah matters? 
• Do we see Hashem’s hand, even when it seems hidden? 
• Do we fight for others, or do we stay silent like Noach? 
• Are we passing on Torah, or are we keeping it to ourselves?  

Understanding “חכמי לב” and “רוח חכמה” 

Why the Double Language? 

In Shemot 28:3, Hashem commands Moshe: 

“וְאַתָּ֗ה תְּדַבֵּר֙ אֶל־כׇּל־חַכְמֵי־לֵ֔ב אֲשֶׁ֥ר מִלֵּאתִ֖יו
ר֣וּחַ חׇכְמָ֑ה…” 

“You shall speak to all the wise-hearted, whom I have filled
with a spirit of wisdom…” 

The phrasing is curious. If Hashem is filling them with
wisdom, why are they already called “wise-hearted” (חכמי לב)” beforehand? And
if they are already wise-hearted, what does Hashem’s filling add? 

This suggests a process: wisdom doesn’t appear out of
nowhere—it must begin with something inside the person. What does that teach us
about how we acquire wisdom? 

The Malbim makes a crucial distinction: 

 • A chacham (wise person) follows
wisdom, but still struggles with his yetzer hara. 

 • A chacham lev (wise-hearted
person) has fully internalized wisdom, so there is no inner conflict—his wisdom
fills his entire being. 

The Torah is teaching that Hashem does not simply grant
wisdom randomly. First, a person must be a chacham lev—someone whose heart is
already oriented toward wisdom. Only then does Hashem grant an even deeper
ruach chachmah—a divine spirit of wisdom. 

Rabbeinu Bachya reinforces this idea: 

 • The artisans making the garments
weren’t just craftsmen; they needed deep kavanah (intentionality). 

 • If their hearts weren’t already
attuned to the sacred purpose of the garments, no amount of technical skill
would be enough. 

This is why Ohr HaChaim emphasizes Moshe’s personal
involvement. He had to handpick those whose hearts already had wisdom because
technical ability wasn’t enough—there had to be devotion and understanding. 

To understand this deeper, let’s look at a powerful story
from the Dubno Maggid as told over by Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky  

Once, the Maggid was giving an inspiring sermon, filled with
wisdom and passion. Among the listeners were a few maskilim (members of the
Enlightenment movement), who were unmoved by his words. 

After the speech, one of them approached him mockingly. 

“Rabbi, the sages say that ‘words from the heart enter the
heart.’ You clearly spoke from your heart—so why didn’t your words affect me at
all?” 

The Dubno Maggid smiled and answered with a parable: 

 A
simple man once visited a blacksmith and saw him using a large bellows. With
just a few squeezes, the flames roared higher and hotter. The man was amazed.
“This tool can make a fire instantly!” he thought. 

 He ran
to buy a bellows for himself, excited to create a roaring fire at home. That
night, he set up some logs in his fireplace and pumped the bellows with all his
might—but nothing happened. The logs remained cold and lifeless. 

 Frustrated,
he returned to the blacksmith and shouted, “This thing doesn’t work! My fire
never started!” 

 The
blacksmith laughed. “You fool! A bellows can only fan a fire—it can’t create
one. If there’s no spark, all the blowing in the world won’t help!” 

The Maggid turned back to the maskil and said: “If there’s
no spark in the heart, even the strongest words won’t ignite anything.” 

This is exactly what the Torah is teaching us about wisdom. 

 • Hashem fills people with ruach
chachmah—but only if they are already chachmei lev. 

 • Wisdom doesn’t begin with divine
inspiration; it begins with a spark, a passion, a desire to learn. 

 • Once that exists, Hashem fans the
flames, filling a person with a higher, divine wisdom. 

This idea perfectly aligns with the Gemara’s principle: 

“לעולם יעסוק אדם בתורה ובמצוות אפילו שלא לשמה, שמתוך שלא לשמה
בא לשמה.” 

“A person should always engage in Torah and mitzvot, even if
not for the purest reasons, because through doing so, he will ultimately reach
pure intentions.” (Pesachim 50b) 

Hashem doesn’t demand perfection from the start. He looks
for those who begin the process—those who make the effort even before they
fully feel it. 

 • If a person waits for inspiration
before engaging in Torah or avodat Hashem, they may never start. 

 • But if they take the first
step—even if their heart isn’t fully engaged yet—Hashem will fill them with a
ruach chachmah over time. 

 • Just like the Chachmei Lev had a
foundation of wisdom before Hashem filled them with even greater wisdom, we
must create the beginning of wisdom through action, even if it’s initially “lo
lishma.” 

Rabbi Abittan often quoted The Sefer HaChinuch (Mitzvah 16)
which teaches: 

“אחרי הפעולות נמשכים הלבבות.” 

“The heart follows the actions.” 

 • This means that even if someone
doesn’t yet feel connected to Torah or mitzvot, by doing the right actions
consistently, their heart will eventually be drawn to them. 

 • The Chachmei Lev weren’t
necessarily born with their wisdom fully developed—they cultivated it over
time. 

 • Hashem only fills someone with
ruach chachmah after they have taken the initiative to become Chachmei Lev. 

When we approach Torah study, avodat Hashem, or any
spiritual growth, we often wait for inspiration. But Hashem is telling us:
“Start with the heart.” 

 • We can’t just passively hope to
become wise—we must open our hearts first. 

 • If we create that initial spark—by
learning, seeking, and striving for depth—then Hashem will take it further. 

 • That is the message of “חכמי לב”
followed by “רוח חכמה”—first, we must have a wise heart. Then, Hashem will fill
us with a divine spirit of wisdom. 

This perspective transforms how we think about acquiring
wisdom and growing spiritually. Wisdom isn’t just given—it’s earned through the
heart. 

If we take the first step—whether in Torah, in avodat
Hashem, or in personal growth—Hashem will respond by filling us with something
even greater. But it all starts with the effort, even if we’re only doing it lo
lishma. First comes the action, then the transformation.  

Remember Adar is the time when we increase our joy 

It is also said to be a lucky month  

In Adar we celebrate Purim  

The sign of Adar is Pices

The permutation of Hashem’s Name for the month of Adar is ההיו (Heh, Heh, Yud, Vav), derived from the final letters of the words עִירֹ֔ה וְלַשֹּׂרֵקָ֖ה בְּנִ֣י אֲתֹנ֑וֹ
(Bereishit 49:11).   

Two weeks ago we read in BeShalach 15:26, Hashem Himself declares,   “כי אני ה’
רופאך” 

  “For I am Hashem, your Healer.” (Its interesting that we end the Aliyah in each Perasha with those words)   

These two declarations are not redundant; they reveal two distinct modalities of healing. The Torah grants human physicians’ explicit permission to heal, while at the same time assuring us that ultimate, complete healing comes only from Hashem. In today’s
class we will explore these themes in depth. We will consider the subtle linguistic nuances—such as the difference between dotted and undotted letters in the Hebrew word for healing—and examine the mystical significance of the 27 letters of our holy alphabet. We will also incorporate the visionary insights of Rav Kook regarding human effort, Divine mercy, and the central role of Shabbat in restoring the cosmic order.  

In my neighborhood of Kew Gardens, New York, there was a terrible snowstorm just before Purim. The roads were blocked, sanitation services weren’t running, and for days, the garbage wasn’t picked up.

A few nights after Purim, at 2:00 in the morning, Rabbi Kalman Epstein—a brilliant Torah scholar—was awake learning when he suddenly heard the sound of a garbage truck outside. Seeing his kitchen filled with black garbage bags, he grabbed them and ran outside.

As he handed the bags to one of the sanitation workers, the man looked at him and asked, “Excuse me, sir, are you a rabbi?”

Rabbi Epstein was taken aback. That was the last thing he expected from a sanitation worker at 2:00 in the morning.

“Yes, I am,” he answered.

“Rabbi, can I ask you a question?”

Rabbi Epstein nodded, curious about what was coming next.

The man sighed deeply. “My mother passed away a few hours ago. She wasn’t religious, and neither are my siblings. They want to cremate her. But I know she wouldn’t have wanted that. She wasn’t observant, but she always lit Shabbat candles. We didn’t always keep kosher, we didn’t always keep Shabbat, but I know she would have wanted a Jewish burial.”

His voice broke. “Rabbi, what should I do? I haven’t even told my siblings yet.”

Rabbi Epstein, wise and quick-thinking, said, “Listen to me carefully. It’s 2:00 in the morning. At 9:00 AM, call a Jewish funeral home. Tell them your mother passed away and arrange for the burial. Once everything is in place, call your siblings and tell them, ‘Mom passed away, and the funeral is set for 2:00 PM this afternoon.’ If everything is already arranged, they won’t argue.”

The man followed his advice.

Later that day, at 1:00 PM, he called Rabbi Epstein. “Rabbi, you’re a genius! I did exactly what you said. I called the funeral home, arranged everything, and then told my siblings. They didn’t resist—they just showed up at 2:00 for the funeral. Thank you so much.”

Rabbi Epstein said, “I’m happy it worked out.”

But the man hesitated. “Rabbi… I have to ask you for one more favor. You’re the only rabbi I know. Would you come and say a few words at my mother’s funeral?”

Rabbi Epstein had never met this woman. He hadn’t even known of her existence until the night before. But he was a tzaddik, so he agreed.

“People Reap in Death What They Sow in Life”

At the funeral, Rabbi Epstein spoke with deep emotion.

“People reap in death what they sow in life. This woman, though not fully observant, had a connection to Hashem. She lit Shabbat candles. That small act was her bridge to Judaism. And so, Hashem ensured that she merited a proper Jewish burial.”

Afterward, Rabbi Epstein went home. The burial took place elsewhere. That was the end of it—or so he thought.

The next day, he had to be in Lakewood. The man, Theodore, lived far out in Suffolk County—160 miles from where Rabbi Epstein was. Despite the distance, Rabbi Epstein made the long journey just to visit him and offer comfort.

He tried to follow up with him afterward, but Theodore never returned his calls. Then, two weeks later, Rabbi Epstein once again heard the garbage truck outside in the middle of the night.

He ran outside and asked the workers, “Is Theodore here today?”

They looked at him, confused. “Who’s Theodore?”

“What do you mean? He was here two weeks ago, at 2:00 AM.”

One of the workers replied, “Rabbi, Theodore never works here. He’s based in Suffolk County—80 miles from here. That night was the only time he ever worked in the city. We were short-staffed because of the snowstorm, so they sent in extra hands. But he’s never been here before.”

Rabbi Epstein was stunned.

The entire sequence of events—the timing, the snowstorm, the uncollected garbage, the extra shift—was all orchestrated by Hashem so that this woman would receive the burial she deserved.

Midah K’neged Midah—A Connection Through Fire

I loved this story. The hashgacha pratis, the divine orchestration, was breathtaking.

That summer, I shared it at Camp Monk, where my rebbe, Rabbi David Cohen, was in attendance.

Afterward, Rabbi Cohen approached me. “Paysach,” he said, “this story is much deeper than just hashgacha pratis. Think about it—what’s the essence of the story?”

I thought for a moment. “It’s about Hashem guiding events to give her a proper Jewish burial,” I said.

Rabbi Cohen shook his head. “It’s much more than that. Tell me—how did this woman connect to Hashem?”