Rabbi's weekly Blog

Two years ago, at the end of a mental coaching process, I sat with a professional. I wanted to improve my performance in every area of my life, and I had gone through a series of Zoom sessions with him.

As usual, he asked questions that touched on painful or challenging areas, so that I could examine them — and myself — because that is how we grow and move forward in life.

Among other things, I told him that I wanted to lose weight because I was overweight. When he asked me why, I answered that I was beginning to feel it in my knees and was afraid of damaging my health.

He then held up a mirror to me and said:

“Pay attention. You don’t want to lose weight because you want to look good — even though, of course, you do want to look good. You don’t even want to lose weight because you want to be healthy. You want to lose weight because you don’t want to become sick, because you don’t want to cause damage.

In other words, this is not a choice — it is a necessity. It is not initiative, but reaction.

It won’t work for you this way.

When you reach the point where you understand — intellectually, and then emotionally — that you want to lose weight because you want to look good and because you want to be healthy, it will come from the right place. And then you will succeed without constant battles and pain.”

That was the moment when I truly understood the blessing we wish ourselves on Rosh Hashanah:

“May we be the head and not the tail.”

In other words: May we be proactive rather than reactive. May we choose out of desire, rather than act out of necessity.

And this, dear friends, is my wish for all of you:

May we be the head and not the tail.

And by the way, it took me more than a year until I truly reached that intellectual and emotional realization regarding my weight. And then it started to happen, thank G-d.

By the way #2: He told me exactly the same thing about my desire to study a Chassidic lesson every morning before dawn. It took me some time to internalize it — and now it simply works. Try it at home. 😊

By the way #3: He told me the same thing about money as well. But we’ll leave that for another time. 😉

Shanah Tovah U’metukah — wishing you a good and sweet New Year!

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

 This week, I visited a milk powder factory in Germany. It is a long-established company in the industry, one that for many years has made sure to maintain kosher certification so that its products are available to customers who require kosher products.

The company’s managers and salespeople are highly orderly and organized—people of spreadsheets and measurements, as befits a respectable German company. Above all, they take great pride in their products.

My role there, as a kosher supervisor, is more closely connected to the production side. The person I deal with at the factory is usually someone from the technical department. But every now and then, someone from the business side of the company joins a meeting, and then, partly out of politeness and partly out of genuine curiosity, I ask about the business as well: Is the company doing well? Do they have enough customers? How are sales?

This week, they told me with great excitement that they have a relatively new customer—a chocolate company that is buying such enormous quantities of milk powder from them that they have had to extend their work shifts just to keep up with demand.

I was somewhat puzzled by this new customer.

First, the company is located quite far away, and there usually needs to be a very good reason to buy goods from such a distance. Most often, that reason is a good price.

Second, from previous conversations I knew that this factory was not exactly the cheapest supplier on the market. Not because they did not want to be, but simply because some of their equipment is rather old—especially their drying tower, where the milk is turned into powder.

The tower is quite old, around sixty years old. It still does the job, but its output is much lower than that of modern drying towers, which can produce twice as much in the same amount of time.

I knew this because several years ago they had proudly shown me the new tower they were building, one that was supposed to double their production capacity. But I also remembered that the new tower, in which millions had been invested, had failed to live up to expectations. It developed a problem and is not being used at all.

“So,” I asked, “what is your marketing method? What’s the strategy? In such a saturated market, how did you manage to convince such a large customer to come all this way and buy specifically from you, despite the higher price?”

My impeccably dressed, tie-wearing colleague smiled slightly and replied in decisive German:

“Reiner Zufall.” - Pure coincidence.

I had been waiting for a precise explanation, one based on a clear, measurable method, so I was astonished when he continued.

It turns out, he explained, that their milk powder has a distinctive aroma. It is created by the milk powder being slightly scorched at a temperature a little higher than it ideally should be.

And this is not something they planned or intended. Quite the opposite: they do not really have control over it. It is, in a sense, a malfunction caused by the advanced age of their drying tower.

The customers tasted it, tested it, and came back saying that this particular aroma enhances their chocolate in a remarkable way. As a result, they transferred almost all of their milk powder purchasing to this factory.

“Reiner Zufall,” he said to me again with a smile.

I took a piece of paper and showed him something about the Hebrew word for “coincidence,” *mikreh* (מקרה). When its letters are rearranged, they can form *rak meHashem*—“only from Hashem.”

“This isn’t *reiner Zufall*,” I told him. “This is *rein HaKadosh Baruch Hu*—purely the work of G-d.”

I thought to myself: This is exactly what I needed to hear on the eve of the New Year.

To see how, in a stronghold of planning and Excel spreadsheets, of methods and strategies, there are moments when even the professionals throw up their hands and say, “We have no explanation for this.”

This is what I needed to hear—to strengthen my faith and trust that the Holy One, blessed be He, directs the entire world “like clay in the hands of the potter”—literally.

And now, you too have had the privilege of hearing it.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

“But how do you actually do it?” That is what my aunt asked me this week.

Last week, I wrote about arrogance. I shared the Rebbe’s explanation that a roof symbolizes arrogance, while the railing around the roof represents the protection against it.

I also shared some criticism I had received from someone who found it difficult to listen to what I was saying because he felt that I was speaking down to him.

And this week I was by the Rebbe — meaning, in New York. I visited my dear aunt, my mother’s sister, whose home has always been a home for me — especially during the years I studied in New York, but also before and after, and in fact, to this very day.

My aunt, who is a learned woman and does not accept everything at face value, asked me: “I read your post. It sounds beautiful, but how do you actually do it? How can you really speak to every person without a sense of superiority?”

“There is one word for it in Chassidic thought,” I answered. “It is called bittul — self-nullification.”

My aunt opened her eyes wide and, in the kind of Hebrew spoken by people who have lived outside Israel for many years, said: “What are you talking about? Bittul? Just like that — bittul?”

I will not presume to define bittul, and perhaps it cannot really be defined. I will only say that I was not surprised by my aunt’s reaction, because among Chassidim, bittul is often perceived as something abstract and almost unattainable.

But our conversation stayed with me for several days, and somehow it suddenly occurred to me that the upcoming parshah, Ki Tavo, contains the secret to neutralizing arrogance — and perhaps even the secret to bittul.

In two words: recognizing the good.

When I say “recognizing the good,” the word recognizing has two meanings:

A. Acknowledging the person who has done good for you — simply saying thank you to someone who has helped you.

B. Actually recognizing the good that we have. Before we even begin to say thank you, we need to look around and notice the good — to truly see it.

When a person recognizes the good in his life and understands that it is a gift he has received, his gratitude comes from a genuine and deeply internal place. And when gratitude comes from such a place, there is no room for arrogance.

Because arrogance can exist only when I consider myself to be something in my own right. But when I say, “Modim anachnu lach” — “We give thanks to You,” when I recognize the good and know that I received it as a gift, I bow my head. And with it, I bow down whatever arrogance may be there.

So how do we actually do it?

Just before sitting down with someone, look inward with clean and honest eyes and recognize that everything we have was given to us. Then acknowledgment becomes gratitude, and arrogance begins to dissolve.

In this week’s Torah portion, across eleven long verses devoted to the mitzvah of Bikkurim, the first fruits, the Torah teaches us precisely how to do this:

A. Sit in your place — professionally or emotionally, spiritually or even geographically — in your good and comfortable place, while knowing that it is a gift from G-d.

B. Take something from your own produce — something you created, something you seemingly made with your own ten fingers.

C. Go backward through your history — not only your own history, but that of your ancestors, even hundreds of years back. Remember where you came from and what you have been through. Realize that, considering everything you and your family have experienced, nothing you have today can be taken for granted. Sometimes, it is not even entirely logical or understandable by ordinary human reasoning.

D. Return to this present moment, when you are settled and at peace, with the basket in your hands — and bow down as an expression of recognition, acknowledgment, and gratitude.

E. And there is another condition, no less important: “You shall rejoice in all the good” that has been given to you.

F. But not alone. Do not rejoice alone. You must share your joy with those around you who need support and help.

Like everything in life, if we want to become good at this, we need to work at it. We need to practice.

From experience, it works.

It is worth it.

And you become a better person.

May we succeed,

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

It's unpleasant to experience condescension. It's unpleasant to be around a person who looks down on you, and it's even more unpleasant when you ask for advice or help from a place of need, and the giver responds with a certain degree of condescension. 

I knew this; everyone knows this the moment they first experience condescension. What I didn't know is that sometimes, I myself can be condescending, or at least that's how the person speaking to me feels at times.

I have some memories in my mind, or perhaps more accurately, memories in my heart, of people who came to me, shared their pain, and I responded from a place of being knowledgeable, wise, the one who understands everything at once and knows what the other person is dealing with. It was gentle, wrapped in consideration, but the other person experienced condescension, bordering on disrespect.

These memories are not from the past year or even from two years ago, but not much longer than two years. I don't know if this happens today; I'm sure it does from time to time, but thank G-d I haven’t received feedback on it recently. I clearly remember the man or woman saying or writing to me later, “You should know it was hard for me to talk to you. I felt that you were coming from a condescending and disrespectful place.” I don't know if there's a more difficult experience than that; I felt terrible. At first, of course, I downplayed it internally—it's nonsense, I’m not condescending, they misunderstood, it's just their perception—but gradually, that annoying voice of my inner compass said to me, “You’re downplaying this to protect yourself, and that's fine, protect yourself as much as you want, but that won't help you grow.” 

When I gathered the courage and listened again to what they said, to the experience my conversation partner had, this time from a place of genuine, open listening, without defensiveness, I could clearly understand what they were talking about. It didn’t make it easier, but it did lead me to work on it.

In *Likkutei Sichos*, volume 24, in a discussion on the verse “and you shall make a parapet for your roof” (Deuteronomy 22:8), the Rebbe explains that in the context of personal work, the “roof” symbolizes arrogance and pride, and the parapet is needed to restrain this roof, to ensure it doesn’t cause harm—“and you shall make a parapet for your roof.”

The Rebbe then lays down the foundations for anyone who influences another person, and in my understanding, this includes relationships, parenting, and certainly for a Chabadnik.

Here are the words of the translated discourse: 

"The purpose of the 'parapet for your roof' is not so much to protect oneself from spiritual downfall but also for the sake of others, so that your roof—your arrogance and pride—does not cause the spiritual downfall of another Jew."

"When a person has pride, not only is it a flaw in their personal spiritual work, but it can also cause the downfall of the Jew upon whom they have influence. When one influences others with words that come from the heart, without personal interests or agendas, those words will surely reach the heart and have their intended effect."

"But if one's words are mixed with ego and pride, not only does this interfere with the success of their words and in drawing the other closer, it can even lead to the opposite—G-d forbid, their pride and words might distance the listener."

Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

If I had my way, there would be an eleventh commandment: “Do not judge,” continuing the Ten Commandments we all know about: Do not steal, do not murder, do not covet and… do not judge.

Twenty years of work with the public have taught me that you can never really be in the other person’s shoes. You can think something about a person, and then suddenly you receive more information about him that changes your viewpoint entirely.

The Rebbe learns this specifically from this week’s Parasha, Parashat Shoftim:

The Torah says, “Judges and officers you shall appoint in all your cities.” Our Sages learn from the phrase ‘in all your cities,” that judges should be appointed not only in the Land of Israel, but rather in every place where Jews live. Why? Because the judges of the Land of Israel cannot really understand a person who lives abroad, and a judge who cannot understand you, cannot judge you, either!

“Do not judge your friend until you reach his place,” says Hillel the Elder in Pirkei Avot. “The satiated does not understand the hungry,” people say, and it’s true; oy, is it true.

So one needs judges and officers, but when the Torah says that officers are needed it says in the same sentence “in all your cities.” A judge can judge only after he has reached the place of the judged; only if he is able to open his mind and understand the defendant and his situation – his weaknesses and his difficulties.

That is exactly my message this week for all of us. As we stand, right before the Yamim Nora’im (High Holy Days), in the days of Selichot, it would be good – a moment before asking forgiveness – to make a resolution not to judge another person “until you reach his place.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

A Jew of German background heard the rabbi in Schul, on the Shabbat when parashat Re’eh is read, mention the pasuk, “Aser te’aser - You shall surely tithe the entire crop of your planting, the produce of the field, year by year.” He listened carefully. The Rabbi brought the wonderful conversation between Rabbi Yochanan and his young nephew, the son of his sister and his friend and famous challenger, Reish Lakish.

Rabbi Yochanan said to his nephew: “Say a pasuk.”

The nephew then quoted the pasuk of “You shall tithe…” and asked his uncle, “What does the expression there, aser te’aser?”

“It means: tithe so that you will get rich (aser bishvil shetitasher),” replied Rabbi Yochanan. In other words, a person who is careful to give his tithes is promised that he will be wealthy.

The young boy didn’t let it go at that (see the beauty of the Gemara, which considers it legitimate for the young nephew to argue with his great uncle, Rabbi Yochanan): “How do you know that?” How do you know that a person who tithes indeed becomes wealthy?

Rabbi Yochanan replied: “Go try it.” Give the tithe and test Hashem.

The nephew still wasn’t satisfied: “Is one allowed to test Hashem?”

Said Rabbi Yochanan: “You are right. Ordinarily one should not test Hashem. But in anything connected to ma’aser, it is permitted.” And he brought, as proof, the pasuk from the Prophet Malachi, where Hashem says, “Test me.” “Bring all the tithes to the storage house… Test me if you will, with this, says Hashem Tzva’ot; see if I do not open up for you the windows of the heavens and pour out upon you blessing without end.”

So, said the Rabbi in his Shabbat sermon, whoever brings tzedaka to the Schul has Hashem’s promise that he will be rich and get back at least ten times what he gave.

On Motzai Shabbat, when the Rabbi was still putting drops of wine into his pocket for mazel and bracha, the Jew knocked on his door, holding an envelope that contained one thousand dollars. When the Rabbi finished counting the money in Yiddish, this Jew said to the Rabbi: “You said this morning that I will get ten times that amount, right? I’m expecting to receive ten thousand dollars in return.” The Rabbi became alarmed and said, “Listen, see, I meant that…” But the man was already out the door, happy with the promise.

For three weeks the man pursued the Rabbi: “You promised me ten times the amount. You said Hashem promises wealth. Where’s the money?” This – for three weeks. Every time the poor Rabbi would see this man in the street he would immediately cross the street or turn around and hide until he was gone.

One day, the Jew chased after the Rabbi. The Rabbi tried to run away, but the Jew caught up with him and said, “Kvod HaRav, listen: Hashem paid me back. Today I made a deal and earned ten times the amount. I wanted to tell you that you were right.” And then he continued in Yiddish: “Hashem’s word is reliable, but he doesn’t quite stick to schedules.”…

I heard this so-Jewish story from my friend, R. Benny Ben Ami z”l, who passed away suddenly around this time of year, Nine years ago. Whenever Benny had a chance, he would give tzedaka, more than the conventional amounts. He would give happily and with a full heart; and his heart was as wide as his shoulders. His broad grin and his laughter appear in front of my eyes whenever I think of him. I have a feeling that he tells this story in Gan Eden as well.

We are not supposed to observe the mitzvot in order to receive the reward for them, but even if we do so, Hashem’s promise still stands. The Rebbe once wrote on this topic: “In spite of the fact the mitzvahs in general, tzedaka included, should not be done for the reward, but rather because Hashem, the Creator and Master of the World commanded us to do so, still, Hashem promised aser te’aser – that you will become wealthy both materially and spiritually.”

And anyone who is not sure of this is told by Rabbi Yochanan: “Go try it.”

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

When I wanted to get Asher worked up during yeshiva, I would tell him, "But fundamentally, I'm a serious Chassidic guy."

I would always say it after my behavior had been anything but serious—for example, sleeping in late or generally wasting time. Asher was, and still is, a soulmate of a friend, but back then he had a fairly short fuse (which, to his credit, has grown considerably longer over the years). He would get visibly irritated and mutter through clenched teeth, "Your 'principles' ought to be lined up in front of a firing squad."

I genuinely couldn't understand why he got so upset. After all, fundamentally I really was a serious, G-d-fearing Chassidic fellow. I wasn't lying.

Patterns of thought and behavior don't change easily. After I got married, I noticed that this theme kept repeating itself. Time and again I insisted that, fundamentally, I was amazing, while my wife would respond, "Frankly, my grandmother couldn't care less about your principles."

I remember a defining moment—the moment before the change, after which everything was different. We were already deep into family life, with our growing family, thank G-d, and we were talking (or, more accurately, analyzing the subject to death) about optimism, positive thinking, and joy.

I argued passionately that fundamentally I was a happy, optimistic, positive person. The proof, I claimed, was that I navigated plenty of life's bumps and setbacks without falling apart.

My wise wife answered with one of the most practical and considerate things she has ever said to me: "But how does it help me that you're fundamentally happy? If, in principle, you're a happy person, but your face looks like Tisha B'Av because you've had a rough day, then you're not happy. Period. As far as I'm concerned, you can be fundamentally sad—but practically joyful."

That conversation didn't transform me overnight. It was the culmination of years of discussions on the subject. It was the final hammer blow that drove the point home. Something inside me finally understood: principles aren't what matter. What matters is what you actually do.

Or, in the language of Chassidus: the essence is good, but without revelation, it doesn't amount to much. Perhaps that's why the Rebbe so often concluded his blessings with the phrase: "May it be good in a revealed and visible way."

This week I studied a maamar on Tu B'Av that the Rebbe delivered in 5747 (1987), and it gave me a beautiful confirmation of this idea.

The maamar, which is based on an earlier discourse by the Rebbe Rashab and ultimately on Pri Etz Chaim by Rabbi Chaim Vital, explains that the essential significance of the Fifteenth of Av is that it is the day when the moon shines in its fullness—"kayma sihara bishleimusa" ("the moon stands in complete fullness"). From this central idea flow all the other miracles that the Gemara associates with Tu B'Av, until it earns the remarkable description: "There were no greater festivals for Israel than the Fifteenth of Av."

The insight that captivated me is that the entire essence of Tu B'Av is simply revelation.

As the maamar puts it: *"The unique quality of the Fifteenth of Av lies in the realm of revelation."* The Rebbe develops this idea on several levels. I'll mention just two.

The simplest example is the full moon itself.

Except... that's not actually true.

The moon is always whole. It doesn't literally shrink and grow over the course of the month. Its size never changes. What changes is only how much of it is revealed to us. On the fifteenth of the month, it is simply fully revealed.

A second example is the earliest event that the Gemara associates chronologically with Tu B’Av: "the day when the wilderness generation stopped dying."

After the sin of the spies, the generation of the wilderness was decreed to die before entering the Land of Israel. The Midrash describes how every year, on Tisha B'Av, the men would lie down in graves they had dug for themselves, and about fifteen thousand would not wake up the next morning.

In the fortieth year, they again entered their graves on Tisha B'Av. When everyone woke up alive the next morning, they assumed they must have miscalculated the date. So they returned to the graves the following night—and then the next, and the next—until the night of the Fourteenth of Av.

When the moon finally appeared in its full brightness on the Fifteenth of Av, they realized they had not made a mistake after all.

They said, "The Holy One, blessed be He, has removed that harsh decree from us, and they celebrated with feasting, rejoicing, and a festival.״

In other words, the decree had actually been lifted on Tisha B'Av. The Fifteenth of Av was merely the day when it became revealed that the decree had been lifted.

And yet, the feast, the celebration, and the holiday were not established on the day the decree ended—but on the day its cancellation became visible.

Because that's how life works.

The essence may be sound. The principle may be correct. But revelation is what gives us reason to celebrate.

So if you're fundamentally happy, remember that it doesn't impress my wife's grandmother. What matters is not the principle of joy, but the revelation of joy.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I used to believe in Divine Providence (hashgacha pratit). I heard stories, listened to lectures and went to classes, studied essays; this belief was also instilled in me at home, from the moment I was born. I believed in it.

Nowadays I don’t believe in Divine Providence – now I can see it; I know that it exists.

For the first thirty years of my life, more or less, when something happened that seemed to be upside-down, illogical, leaving me stuck or getting in the way, I needed the faith that I had saved up, all those stories and classes.

Nowadays, when something like that happens, I smile at it and know that it is for my own good, and sometimes also try to guess what the future will bring: “It will be interesting to see how all this will turn out to be for the good, and when exactly I will see it happening.”

Why is that so? It is very simple. When you live with an awareness of Divine Providence, and learn to look at everything that is happening around you as coming from that Divine Providence, you get used to seeing how Hashem arranges the puzzle of life in a wonderful way. You also learn that He is a bit wiser than you.

I used to say that “If the Master of the World would just listen to my advice, everything would be better.” Today I say, “It’s a good thing that He doesn’t listen to my wise ideas.”

On Shavuot 5723 (1963) the Rebbe explained the famous passuk from this week’s parasha, parashat Va’etchanan, “Ata horeta – You have been shown in order to know that Hashem, He is the G-d. There is none beside him.” Also, the passuk shortly after that, “You shall know this day and take to your heart that Hashem, He is the G-d in heaven above and on the earth below – there is none other.”

The first verse is describing a relationship that comes down from above: You, Hashem, are the one who showed us to know that You are the G-d.” that is the faith that we received, the one we learned and read about, and received at home as well. The second is describing a relationship from the bottom up. Here, it is not Hashem who is teaching, but rather the human being, out of his life experience and with his own resources, reaches the understanding that “You shall know this day.” It is more knowledge, less belief.

And from this comes the other difference between the two psukim. What a person receives from an external source will not settle completely in his heart. The person might be convinced, and certainly he or she will believe, but the heart will still have its doubts – it has its own rules. But when a person reaches an understanding through life’s experience, working from the bottom up, then immediately after “You shall know this day,” he will experience “and take to your heart.”

Shabbat Shalom – and smile, because all is for the good!

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

 On Shabbat Parashat Devarim, 5731 (1971), the Rebbe delivered the maamar *Eichah Yashvah Badad*.

The maamar contrasts, compares, and ultimately unites the straightforward meaning of the verse with the Chassidic interpretation of the ״Tzemach Tzedek״.

The plain meaning of the verse speaks of Jerusalem, desolate and alone. As Rashi explains, she is "bereft of her inhabitants."

The Chassidic interpretation, however, understands *badad* in a completely different sense: alone with Hashem. It connects this idea with the verse, "Hashem alone shall lead him" (*Hashem badad yanchenu*).

What a remarkable contrast between these two interpretations. One speaks of a person who is utterly alone, isolated, abandoned, with no one in the world. The other speaks of someone who has reached the highest level of closeness to Hashem, where there is nothing but Him: *Hashem badad yanchenu*.

The first is someone who feels forsaken. The second is someone who feels embraced, echoing the verse, "Hashem will gather me in" (*Hashem ya'asfeini*).

Throughout the maamar, the Rebbe explains in depth how it is precisely the moments of *yashvah badad* that lead a person to the state of *Hashem badad yanchenu*. It is precisely when a person continues despite the hardship, when they feel they can barely go on, when the darkness of exile seems to have reached its peak, that they draw upon themselves the revelation of *Hashem badad yanchenu*.

To reinforce this idea, the Rebbe cites the Chassidic explanation of why Moshe Rabbeinu is described as the humblest person who ever lived. Knowing the immense spiritual challenges that would confront our generation, while also knowing that despite everything Jews would continue to study Torah, observe mitzvot, and increase the light of holiness, filled Moshe with humility.

In the words of the maamar:

"As is well known regarding the verse, 'And the man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than any person upon the face of the earth'—this was especially so when Moshe saw the generation of Ikveta deMeshicha, the generation immediately preceding the coming of Mashiach, when there would be countless concealments and obstacles. Yet despite this, they would study Torah, fulfill mitzvot, and increase the light. It was this service that brought Moshe to humility."

Anyone who has already logged a few miles in this world knows that it is often the hardest moments that deepen our faith. Everything is always guided by His loving and precise Divine Providence, but it is דווקא in times of hardship that we come to see most clearly that, when all is said and done, there is no one to rely upon but our Father in Heaven.

To anyone who feels a little, or perhaps very, alone, remember: the journey from *Eichah Yashvah Badad* to *Hashem Badad Yanchenu* is shorter than it seems.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I once heard a conversation with the late Shimon Peres when he was President of Israel. During one of his visits, people he met complained that Israel Railways was often delayed, frequently ran late, and certainly wasn't as punctual as the Swiss trains.

Peres listened and replied:

"Look, the Swiss are punctual because they invented the clock. We invented eternity. With eternity, if this train doesn't come now, the next one will."

That stayed with me.

Here's a recommendation:

Take an unplanned journey once in a while. Or at least one that isn't tightly scheduled.

A few times over the past several years (though we really should do it more often), we set out on a short trip with almost no plan. We got into the car and simply drove. We stopped in one town, stayed as long as we felt like staying, then continued. Later we stopped at a roadside hotel or a sleepy little village, lingered there, followed whatever caught our attention, and moved on.

We didn't have an hourly itinerary—only a rough plan by days. We didn't know exactly when we'd arrive somewhere, when we'd leave, or even precisely where we'd end up. The only thing we knew was when we eventually wanted to be back home.

In fact, you don't even need several days.

Sometimes it's enough to leave early in the morning with the intention of reaching a certain destination by evening, and simply let the day unfold. If something interesting appears along the way, stop. If a beautiful view captures your heart, pull over and enjoy it. If you pass a charming little shop or an outlet worth exploring, why not? Park the car, take your time, perhaps have a coffee, and then continue on your way.

Why do I recommend this?

Because, at least for me, it was surprisingly stressful at first not to have everything planned. I think it's healthy to face the things that make us uncomfortable instead of avoiding them.

More importantly, I learned that there's no need to fear the unknown. When you approach the journey with a relaxed spirit and a willingness to go with the flow, everything somehow works out. Every situation contains something beautiful. You stop worrying about the clock because the schedule was never rigid to begin with. And, almost without noticing, you become truly present—in the moment and in the place where you are.

Only later did we realize that it wasn't just another vacation.

It had become a kind of training for the muscle of faith—the understanding that every person and every event has its own journey, its own process, and its own pace. We learned that not everything can be accelerated. And perhaps most importantly, when something doesn't go according to plan, it often turns out to be for the best. It's a shame to lose your good mood over something that may ultimately become part of the blessing.

For Parashat Massei,

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

A few years ago, I heard the following story from Rabbi Shimon Druck (may he live and be well), one of the Rebbe's emissaries in Detroit, Michigan. I hope I am not mistaken in any of the details, because Rabbi Shimon is well known as a master storyteller who is meticulous about the accuracy of every detail he recounts.

Someone (perhaps Rabbi Shimon himself) once approached the chassid Rabbi Heshel Zeitlin of blessed memory and asked him for advice on raising children—one piece of advice that would apply broadly.

Rabbi Heshel Zeitlin of Montreal was renowned among Chabad chassidim as a deeply sincere and authentic chassid, a man who had absolutely no connection to falsehood or pretense.

Rabbi Heshel felt uncomfortable being asked such a question, as though to say, "Who am I to give such advice?" Yet he was a man of complete acceptance of G-d's will (*kabbalat ol*), so he answered immediately, clearly, and simply:

"Zog zey dem emes" — "Tell them the truth."

This week I was interviewed for a podcast on Parshat Pinchas by Lior and Vanessa Sachs Sagi. I did not know them beforehand and had no idea what to expect. But when Lior asked me about Pinchas' zealotry, I suddenly realized something I had never fully appreciated before.

At the core of Pinchas' act of zealotry stood a clear recognition of the truth, followed by the willingness to stand up for that truth—and, in his unique case, to act upon it with extraordinary zeal.

I am not advocating acts of zealotry.

As a general rule, before we do anything—including anything we write or say—we should ask ourselves: What is the worst possible outcome of this action? Only then should we weigh whether what we are about to do is worth the risk.

For example, someone who decides to write something critical about another person—even with the noble intention of "improving the world"—must honestly consider the best possible outcome alongside the worst possible damage it may cause, and decide whether the gain truly justifies the risk. If not—and in my opinion, even if there is serious doubt—it is usually better to remain silent.

An act of zealotry is so extreme that it is almost impossible to justify the potential harm for the sake of the possible benefit.

Pinchas was Pinchas.

I am not Pinchas.

And most likely, neither are you.

Yet there is something profound we can learn from the foundation of his actions. The central motivation behind what he did is something we should strive to bring into our own lives. In my humble opinion, that foundation was the pursuit of truth.

The truth is rarely easy to hear. People generally do not enjoy hearing painful truths. Yet sometimes there is simply no alternative.

This is where the Torah and Rashi's commentary become so meaningful. The Torah says:

"Pinchas, the son of Elazar, the son of Aaron the Kohen, turned away My wrath..."

Rashi, quoting the Talmud (Sanhedrin), explains that the tribes mocked Pinchas and questioned his motives. Therefore, the Torah deliberately traces his lineage back to Aaron.

In other words, those around him assumed he acted out of an aggressive personality or a natural tendency toward fanaticism. The Torah therefore reminds us that he descended from Aaron—the man who "loved peace and pursued peace."

The lesson is powerful.

When we feel compelled to speak the truth—and if you ask me, we are obligated to speak the truth—we must do so with the right timing, the right tone, and carefully chosen words. We must first refine our own character and approach the conversation with genuine humility. We must make sure that the person before us is emotionally capable of hearing what we have to say.

Only after all of that should we speak the truth.

But there is one essential condition:

Before you speak, make absolutely certain that, at that very moment, you are "traced back to Aaron the Kohen"—that your words are coming from someone who truly loves peace and pursues peace.

If you do that, your words will enter the other person's heart. Perhaps not immediately. Perhaps not even that day. But they will enter.

If, however, your words do not genuinely come from a place of love and peace, they will most likely be rejected, and you may well achieve the exact opposite of what you intended.

This applies to every person and every relationship, but first and foremost within our own homes.

It is important to tell our spouse the truth.

It is important to tell our children the truth.

But it must always come from the heart of someone who "loves peace and pursues peace."

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

It's very easy for us to read and study Parshat Balak because we already know there's a happy ending. We know that the curses were transformed into blessings—and not just ordinary blessings, but some of the greatest blessings the Jewish people have ever received.

But imagine for a moment the Jewish people in the wilderness. They already knew they had the power to win wars through their prayers and through Moses prayers. Then along comes Balak, who learns from the very best. He brings a prophet who knows how to strike at their greatest strength. Like every smart enemy, he learns from the mistakes of others. Moab's intelligence officers did their homework and studied their opponent very well. If today our enemies import scientists and expertise from around the world to build systems capable of overcoming our defenses, in those days they did the very same thing: they brought in a system designed to overcome the Jewish people's spiritual defenses.

I'm sure the people were under tremendous pressure. They were certainly afraid—especially if they listened to the pessimists and self-proclaimed experts predicting disaster.

The Jewish people in the wilderness had no idea how the story would end. They didn't know that the curses would become blessings. Naturally, they were shaken and frightened. They entered an agonizing period of waiting, wondering what the next day would bring. They probably stocked up on cases of water and canned food, and who knows, maybe even generators, just in case the forecast of 48 to 72 hours without power throughout the camp actually came true. After all, the situation looked very serious.

And even after those nerve-racking days had passed and the curses had indeed turned into blessings, they still could not foresee what those blessings would ultimately lead to.

Even those who firmly believed that G-d always loves them, that everything would ultimately be for the good—indeed, for an even greater good—and who sang those words over and over again with joy and dancing, could never have imagined that Balak, the king who fought against them, the one about whom the Midrash says, "He hated Israel more than all other enemies," would become the ancestor of Ruth, whose descendant would establish the Jewish monarchy.

I learned all of this from the Rebbe, in a talk delivered on Shabbat Parshat Chukat–Balak, 5746 (1986). The Rebbe derives from this a timeless lesson for every Jew in every situation.

Whenever we find ourselves facing what appears to be a curse—and who among us does not struggle at times with fear, anxiety, darkness, or uncertainty?—the secret is to remember that everything G-d does is for the good. Every curse will ultimately be transformed into a blessing. And not merely into a blessing, but into something far, far greater than we could ever imagine or predict.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The Rabbi of St. Petersburg came into the office of the head of the community, placed his keys on the table and said, “I am resigning my position as rabbi!”

The head of the community was startled: “Rabbi, why?”

And the Rabbi answered: I am resigning because an old lady came to me yesterday and asked a question for which I had no answer. And since I see my role as being that of answering questions, I am resigning.”

The head of community, still in shock, asked some more: “Rabbi, what question could an old, simple Jewish lady ask for which the rabbi of St. Petersburg has no answer?”

“The old lady, came in,” answered the Rabbi, “banged on the table and shouted: “Rabbi, who needs you here?!?”

“And I,” continued the Rabbi, “have been walking around for two days trying unsuccessfully to figure out the answer to that question.”

In this week’s parasha, we see that Moshe Rabbeinu had to cope with the same question. But his solution was not to resign, not even to stay within the confines of his office; rather, he went out and acted.

The war of Korach and his group – headed by the troublemakers Datan and Aviram – was coming to a head. They, in their audacity, were shouting and saying to Moshe Rabbeinu: Rabbi, who needs you here? And Moshe, he sent for them; he just wanted to plead with them. Bu they refused to his request, and said, “We will not come up.” Hashem had already told Moshe to move away from them, because soon the earth will open up and swallow Korach and all of his cohorts. “Come up from around the dwelling of Korach, Datan and Aviram.” But Moshe did not give up yet. He put his own personal honor and reputation on the line and still tried to talk to them. “And Moshe got up and went to Datan and Aviram.” The faithful shepherd didn’t give up as long as there was some hope. He got up and went to them in one last attempt to return them to the fold.

Moshe Rabbeinu’s way of handling things as the leader of the nation is the essence of the shlichut – the mission – that the Lubavitcher Rebbe taught everyone. The Rebbe demanded from everyone – his shluchim, his chassidim, and really from anyone who came in contact with him, directly or through his teachings – that they be activists; that they should set aside their own honor and egoistic calculations that say, “He should come to me if he wants me.” Go out into the world, said the Rebbe. Go out to every man, woman and child, with light, love and authentic Jewish warmth. Bring the good that is within you to every place and every person.

As we come from Gimmel Tammuz, which was observed yesterday, it is fitting that we remember this message. It is only right that we should remember this message. This is the task of Moshe Rabbeinu. This is the approach of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, and also that of anyone who wishes to devote himself or herself to his way: to leave the warm and comfortable haven, to move beyond one’s emotional limitations – to go out there and disseminate warmth, love and joy.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski