Rabbi's weekly Blog

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

When I studied at Oholei Torah Yeshiva in New York in 1996–97, there was a student who made sure to show us, every evening or at least every few days, a short video clip of the Rebbe speaking with extraordinary pathos, pain, intensity, emotion, and seriousness about how every Jew should relate to the fact that the Redemption has still not come and that the Holy Temple has not yet been rebuilt.

The clip was from the farbrengen of Yud-Beis Tammuz 5744 (1984). I only wish I could convey in writing what one experiences when hearing and seeing the Rebbe cry out:

 “The request we make every day, ‘May our eyes behold Your return to Zion,’ is not a matter of mourning over an ancient tragedy. Rather, the destruction is something that continues every single day.

 As it is explicitly stated in the Jerusalem Talmud: ‘Every generation in whose days the Temple is not rebuilt is considered as though it had destroyed it.’ In other words, although nearly 1,900 years have passed since the destruction of the Temple, nevertheless, since on this very day—Thursday of Parshas Pinchas (the day on which the Rebbe spoke these words in 1984)—the Temple has not been rebuilt, it is as though the Temple was destroyed on this very Thursday of Parshas Pinchas!

Accordingly, after the Jewish people cried out ‘Until when?!’ yesterday, the day before, and on all the days before that, and nevertheless on this day the Temple remains destroyed—it is understood how much greater the cry of ‘Until when?!’ must be today!

And, as mentioned, this is not merely a clever homiletic interpretation. It is a clear ruling in Torah law: every generation in whose days the Temple is not rebuilt is considered as though it destroyed it.

Imagine: if a Jew were standing and watching the Temple being destroyed and burned right now—even if he were a hard person, with a heart of stone—he would turn the world upside down. And regarding this, the Torah—the Torah of Truth and the Torah of Life—tells him: Turn the world upside down today!”

I imagine that every Chabad chassid reading these words can see before his mind’s eye and hear the Rebbe’s cry in Yiddish: “Ker a velt haynt!” — “Turn the world upside down today!”

We stand now on the eve of the Shabbat before the Rebbe’s yahrzeit, the 3rd of Tammuz. I want to learn from the Rebbe, to understand his way of thinking, to see the world through his lenses. In these words of the Rebbe there are two foundational principles that have the power to change a person’s life.

The first is that, in the most profound way, the Rebbe took Torah with absolute seriousness. On the most straightforward level, Torah is *Torat Emet*—the Torah of Truth—and *Torat Chayim*—the Torah of Life. If it is truth, then there are no winks, no exaggerations, no statements made by mistake, and nothing that has become irrelevant. And if it is truly alive, then it is relevant at all times, because something that is alive only occasionally is not truly alive. Truth lives constantly.

Therefore, Torah is both the Torah of Truth and the Torah of Life. If the Jerusalem Talmud teaches that every generation in whose days the Temple is not rebuilt is considered as though it destroyed it, then that is the simple truth. And if so, how can a person remain at ease when the Temple is being destroyed in his own days?

The second point, and to me an extraordinarily essential one, is what might be called a quintessentially Lubavitcher Rebbe approach.

I would have thought that a person who witnesses destruction before his eyes, who experiences devastation—especially when faced with overwhelming forces that have destroyed the Holy Temple—would naturally react with discouragement, despair, a lack of motivation to get out of bed in the morning, perhaps even with a sense of victimhood and resignation. And no one would judge him. After all, we are only human.

But not the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

In the very midst of that cry—and anyone who has seen the video knows how alive and intense his pain was—the Rebbe describes a Jew watching the Temple burn. Yet at that very moment, in the most seemingly natural way, the Jew does not despair and does not collapse. He immediately begins to “turn the world upside down” in order to change the situation.

Whether he has great abilities or small ones, whether he is important in his own eyes or not, whether his actions are large or small—all of that is irrelevant. What matters is that at that moment he understands that there is only one thing to do: use whatever tools he has been given and act immediately to change the situation, to transform the world.

And as the Rebbe cries out from the depths of his heart:

“Ker a velt haynt!” — “Turn the world upside down today!”

The message is clear.

All of us face struggles and challenges, accompanied by various forms of pain. A person who puts on the Rebbe’s glasses will be occupied not with surrendering to the situation, but with asking: How do I continue building? How do I move forward? How do I work to change this reality for the better?

Ker a velt haynt.

And speaking of turning the world upside down with the tools available to us: a Shlucha, Devorah Leah bas Yehudis, the wife of a dear friend of mine, is in need of a complete recovery. We know and have always known that teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah have the power to annul a harsh decree.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

“With G-d’s help” is an expression we hear ourselves saying many times each day. Assuming we actually think about the words we say, it is interesting to ask: What do people mean when they say, “With G-d’s help”?

Over time, I have come to understand that “with G-d’s help” has one very simple meaning: G-d will help. He most certainly will help. He is always here to help. As Rabbi Shimon ben Levi said in the Talmud (Kiddushin 30b):

“A person’s evil inclination overpowers him every day and seeks to kill him… and were it not for the Holy One, blessed be He, helping him, he would not be able to overcome it.”

But—and this is an important “but”—He will only help. My role is to act, to do, to make the effort, and He will help me, with G-d’s help.

Our Sages said:

“Open for Me an opening the size of a needle’s eye, and I will open for you an opening as wide as a great hall” (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:3).

The Creator of the world is saying: I am ready to open for you a gateway as wide as a grand hall. I am ready to help you in every way. But it all begins with your effort. Even if your opening is tiny and narrow, like the eye of a needle, make it. Open the door, and I will already be there to open it into a great hall. That is the meaning of “with G-d’s help.”

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha (which we will read tomorrow outside of Israel), describes how the Kohen lights the lamps of the golden Menorah in the Holy Temple. He prepares the lamps and kindles them until “the flame rises on its own.”

In other words, the goal is not for the Kohen to stand there forever tending the lamps and reigniting the fire. Rather, the lamp and the flame should burn independently. More than that, the flame should become one that “rises on its own.” The light should grow stronger, brighter, and higher than it was at the moment it was first lit by the Kohen. We see this in a simple physical sense: when a wick is first lit, the flame is small and weak, but gradually it rises, strengthens, and develops its full form.

As with everything else, the Rebbe, in a talk delivered on Shabbat Beha’alotecha 5750 (1990), translates the Temple service into a personal, practical lesson for our own lives.

The Menorah represents the human being. The light represents the Divine soul that pulsates within us. The Kohen who kindles the flame represents the Holy One, blessed be He, who ignites that flame, connecting body and soul and making them into one radiant unity.

As King Solomon says in Proverbs, “The soul of man is the lamp of G-d.”

Like the Kohen, G-d stands ready with the fire, prepared to bring it to the lamp and ignite it. Indeed, He does ignite our Menorah. But how brightly it will shine, how enduring that light will be, how powerful it will become, and most importantly, whether the flame will rise on its own—that depends on us.

As the Rebbe explains, “That the flame should rise on its own” means that the Jew chooses this through his own inner strength—in a world that conceals G-dliness and leaves room for two possible paths—so that his soul shines openly and illuminates even the body, until he comes to recognize that his very body is a ‘Menorah made entirely of gold.’

How do we accomplish this?

Perhaps sometimes it simply requires choosing it. Wanting it. Looking at it and saying: Yes, I want this.

And even if, at first, my heart is not yet on board, it is only because I have not yet allowed my Divine soul to show it the goodness contained within it. The heart seeks what is good and pleasant. Sometimes all that is required is to let it see, as the Psalmist says, “Taste and see that G-d is good.”

Chassidim would often translate this verse into Yiddish and repeat it to themselves in a language their soul instinctively understood:

“Try it and see that the Eibershter is good.”

One more practical thought:

When we encounter a particular difficulty or stand before a challenge that seems especially daunting, before we throw up our hands and say, “G-d will help,” we should remember that He will only help.

We must first make the effort and take one more step toward the goal—even a very small step, an opening no larger than the eye of a needle. Then He will help and open for us a gateway as wide as a great hall.

To me, this is the preparation required to receive G-d’s assistance.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

One of the most famous schul jokes is about a man who wanted to be a Cohen. He plunked thousands of dollars on the rabbi’s desk, a donation to the schul, so that the rabbi would authorize his being a Cohen. In the discussion that followed, the rabbi asked the man why it was so important for him to be a Cohen. “Well, my grandfather was a Cohen, my father was a Cohen, so I too want to be a Cohen,” answered the man petulantly.

I don’t know about Cohanim, but the Rambam says that anyone can be a Levi.

In chapter 13 of the halachas of Shmittah  and Yovel in the book of Zera’im, the Rambam has thirteen paragraphs in which he lists the laws pertaining to Leviyim. And at the end he says: “And not the tribe of Levi, alone, but rather any person in the world whose spirit has moved him and his knowledge has taught him to separate himself to stand before Hashem, to serve Him, to know Hashem, and he went straight just as G-d made him, and removed from his neck the yoke of the many calculations that people seek – he has become sanctified, kodesh kodashim, and Hashem will be his lot and inheritance for ever and ever; and Hashem will give him in this world what is enough for him, just like He gave the Cohanim and the Leviyim.”

The essence of the tribe of Levi is a true willingness “to stand before Hashem and to serve him.” and this comes, of course, together with a real ability to elevate oneself up above the vanities of this world and even above what is considered by people to be appropriate. This, after all, is the meaning of the name of this week’s parasha, parashat Nasso. When Hashem says, “Nasso – raise up – the heads of the sons of Gershon,” He is commanding Moshe Rabbeinu to count the Levites between the ages of 30 and 50. After he has counted the rest of Bnei Yisrael in parashat Bamidbar, it is now the turn of the Levites to be counted. They are counted separately, because they are different. They have been sanctified “to stand before Hashem and serve Him.” The Rebbe said several times that the word Nasso was chosen intentionally, because it expresses the power that they received from Hashem to rise up and be above all the materialism of the world, its limitations and the supposedly enlightened conventions of human society.

And then the Rambam comes and declares that not only descendants of Levi can do so, but “any person in the world” can do so. In spite of the fact that such a person can never be counted among the tribe of Levi, he has the possibility to choose to live in a world of devotion to a greater goal, and that way he will be elevated above the vanities of this world. Chassidim call this in Yiddish “a tefach hecher” – one handbreath above the world.

May we be successful!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

Recently, I’ve been reading and hearing a lot about what is called the “Age Fifty Crisis.” It refers to men and women around the age of fifty who make significant changes in their lives, almost as if they are trying to be born again.

I read that in the free world, this is often the stage when people get divorced, G-d forbid, resign from their jobs, or move to a different city or country.

At this point in life, many of their major obligations are already behind them. The children are independent, the daily pressure is lighter, and suddenly they dare to discover — and even admit to themselves — that their current spouse no longer feels suitable, that this house or this car bores them, that the city they live in or the social circle around them makes them feel small or at least does not allow them to flourish. The work has become exhausting and there is a longing for something different.

In short, you understand the point. These are actually very understandable feelings for someone who has lived the same life for twenty-five years and longs for change.

I can understand it. In my opinion, many people around the age of fifty can understand it and even identify with it.

I can understand the feeling of boredom, the sense of “I’ve had enough,” the desire for change, the need to flourish and truly live. But what pains me deeply is the assumption that the only path toward something new and exciting is to sever the existing relationships.

I would like to challenge that idea.

A person who has been married for twenty-five years and longs for renewal, excitement, and butterflies — is there really no way to reach that within the home itself? Must one necessarily destroy what already exists?

In my opinion, there is another way.

It is simply much harder. Much more painful. It requires much greater self-awareness and self-understanding.

Not only in marriage — in almost every area of life — the relatively easy path is to cut off an existing connection and create a new one. The harder and more demanding path, but in my eyes the truer and healthier one, is to deepen the existing connection and create change within it.

Here is an exercise:

Imagine you are fifty years old. You work at a decent job, but not one you truly wanted. You live in a nice apartment, but if you dared, you might change something about your living experience. You drive a functional car, but if you had the courage, you would replace it with something that makes you smile every time you enter it.

Suppose you are married to a good woman and life is “fine,” but the passion and enthusiasm have died. The conversation has become entirely technical and local — and who even speaks anymore about butterflies? You live among the same people your entire life, and as a result most of your daily conversations are shallow, technical, or superficial, while deep down you long for a different kind of dialogue, a different language for your life.

Suppose your daily routine has looked exactly the same for twenty years, and in truth you wish it looked different. Suppose you dream of completing the entire Talmud, but you already assume that won’t happen in this lifetime. Suppose you dream of beginning your day at 5:30 in the morning with a study partner learning Chassidut, but you are so exhausted from all the burdens of life that you have almost given up on the dream. Suppose you wish to become a person who can give generous amounts to charity, but that dream feels infinitely distant from who you are now. Suppose you dreamed of being the kind of father who is deeply connected to his children, but in reality it never happened and now it already feels too late.

Now imagine that — G-d forbid — you suffer a concussion that causes you to forget experiences, memories, traumas, and fears. You still recognize your family members, but only their names and faces. Not their personalities. Not their reactions. Not the fears or traumas connected to them. You forgot their essence; only their existence remains.

You return home. You see your wife, your children, the house, the car, the synagogue, the friends, the workplace — essentially the life you left behind before the concussion.

What do you do?

Remember: you no longer have fears. You no longer carry traumas. You never lost money in the past, and your parents never passed down financial anxiety to you. You do not remember the painful arguments and conflicts with your wife — you are meeting her anew. You have no painful memories regarding your children — you are meeting them anew as well. You do not truly remember who your synagogue friends were, so you are free to choose them again. Your schedule is no longer fixed and exhausting — you create it anew.

You can decide to wake up at five in the morning for a class. You can insert a plan into your daily routine to complete the Talmud. You need to get to know your wife again, so you schedule a series of dates and ask her anew: “What do you love? What makes you happy? What frightens you?” And so too with your children.

You open Spotify and search for subjects through which you wish to expand your mind again. You look at your bank account and realize something there makes no sense — but you have no fears, so you are not intimidated by meeting with an investment expert, a real-estate advisor, or someone from the capital markets. You look at your apartment and it no longer feels familiar, so you hire an interior designer to create a vision where your bedroom looks like a luxury hotel suite. You diversify your bookshelf because you are now a fresh person.

Should I continue?

Now tell me: what are the chances that a regular fifty-year-old person — someone who did not suffer a concussion and did not forget anything, someone who absolutely carries fears and traumas, pain and experiences — will stop and examine all this and say to himself:

“You know what? I refuse to continue living in mediocrity. I want to move toward my aspirations, both spiritual and material. I must find a way to release the fears and conditioning and begin walking forward, slowly perhaps, but without stopping — and especially without listening to everyone and everything that tries to stop me.”

It is difficult — very difficult — but possible.

And if it is possible, then it is worth every effort.

The message is that almost everything can be renewed and upgraded within the existing framework. It will likely require breaking internal patterns and assumptions, courage to speak and express oneself, strength to look pain directly in the eye, tremendous inner power to overcome fears and traumas — all while remaining within the existing structure, especially within marriage.

And this connects to the Torah portion of Bemidbar and to the giving of the Torah.

The Torah was given in the desert to teach us that truly new things emerge in a desert — in a place where nothing from the past exists. And if I want to recreate my life anew, then I must first quiet the noise and imagine myself in a desert free of traumas and fears, a place cleansed of anxieties and painful experiences — where everything can be created again from the beginning.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

My relationship with the concept of *“accepting the yoke”* (“Kabbalat Ol”) is as long as my life itself. It has been complex and complicated, responsible for quite a few frustrations and challenges that I experienced throughout most of my life. And when the Torah portion of Bechukotai arrives — a portion that suddenly defines all the commandments of the Torah with one single word: *“statutes”* — this feels like the right time to look at it honestly and courageously, and truthfully also to admit that something has changed. Something good is happening.

The foundation of Jewish life is built upon *Kabbalat Ol*, upon *“Na’aseh VeNishma”* — “We will do and we will hear.”

This week, an educated Christian man visited me and asked to discuss several topics. The first was kashrut, and he presented various rational arguments against refraining from eating pork. My answer was simple: I do not eat or avoid something because I understand the reason for it. God did not give us reasons; He simply told us what we may and may not eat. The explanations and rationalizations are human intellect — we avoid non-kosher food because of Divine wisdom.

I watched his reaction, and honestly, I was genuinely surprised. He was positively shocked. He said he had not expected such an answer: “I came to speak with you on level one, and you’re speaking to me on level one hundred.” He put aside the rest of the questions he had brought with him, and the conversation moved elsewhere — if I may use his wording, the discussion became “level one hundred.”

But that is the easy part of *Kabbalat Ol*.

The difficult part is doing things that are genuinely hard for you — things that require enormous effort and painful inner struggle. Like getting up every single morning at the time you are supposed to get up, even though you were not the one who chose that hour; the *Shulchan Aruch* chose it for you hundreds of years ago without consulting you. Finishing the daily study sessions you are expected to complete even when you are tired and exhausted, even though you did not choose those lessons; your Rebbe chose them for you.

Doing things that go against your familiar nature simply because you must. Saying “yes” to someone joyfully when what you really want is to say a very big “no.” And vice versa — saying “no” when it feels deeply uncomfortable and you desperately want to say “yes.” Asking someone for help or a favor when emotionally and mentally you feel incapable of doing so. Dealing with things that stress you to the point of losing your breath because they simply must be dealt with. Holding yourself back from hurting or insulting someone even when you yourself were deeply hurt. Accepting the ruling of your rabbinic authority even when you were truly hoping he would somehow “arrange” a leniency for you.

I once wrote an essay about “the person of Tohu” versus “the person of Tikun.” There are certainly people who came into this world with built-in self-discipline, and for them it is easier to cope with life. Opposite them stand the “people of chaos,” who came into the world with tremendous inner disorder in both mind and heart — and for them it is a little (or a lot) harder to cope with life.

But even if we put that distinction aside for a moment and include everyone together, coping with *Kabbalat Ol* is not simple at all.

Over the years, I discovered that my central difficulty came from believing there was no room whatsoever to listen to the heart. No room for desire, longing, passion, dreams, or aspirations. There was only *Na’aseh VeNishma*, only *Kabbalat Ol*, only “the mind ruling the heart.” No “want,” only “must.” And of course the famous Chassidic expression: *“Azoi un nisht andersh”* — “This way and no other.”

Slowly, with a great deal of audacity and fear — almost as if I were bordering on heresy against everything I had been taught — I realized that this approach was not entirely accurate. Not only for me, but for human beings in general, it is simply not suitable. So I found for myself a slightly broader approach, one that allows me to truly accept *Kabbalat Ol*.

Here is the approach:

Imagine you are sitting around a round table in a meeting held to make a decision about something important. Until now, only the head, the logic, the intellect — essentially the “must” — were invited to the table. From now on, bring the heart to the table as well: the passion, the joy, the attraction, the longing — essentially the “want.”

When the meeting begins, allow everyone equal space to speak: both the heart and the mind; both sound logic and emotional desire; both what I must do and what I genuinely want to do.

Truly listen to the heart — to the desire, the passion, the attraction, the “I feel like it,” and everything that arises. Then listen to the mind, to healthy reasoning, to what is necessary and required.

In the end, the decision should still be made through intellect and reason, because that is what distinguishes human beings from animals. But when the intellectual decision comes only after giving space to the heart as well, it will probably be gentler, more fitting, and much easier to accept.

The mind absolutely should rule the heart — but the heart most certainly deserves a seat at the table and the opportunity to express itself.

Try this at home. There is a good chance you will be pleasantly surprised.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

“Nitah kein farfallen” (“nothing is lost”) is sometimes understood as referring to a situation that is almost lost — almost everything is over, almost gone — and then comes Pesach Sheni, stands firmly on its feet, and declares: *nothing is lost*.

A couple serving as shluchim who came to me for marriage counseling over Zoom have made — and are continuing to make — a wonderful and moving journey. But at the beginning, when they first came and everything looked like one big chaos, he presented a picture of a relationship that seemed almost beyond repair, and she agreed to come only to give it one last chance. I stopped them and asked them to step for a moment outside the “courtroom,” to temporarily set aside all the incriminating evidence they were holding, and to draw the picture of their optimal, ultimate, desired, dream relationship.

It was really difficult. They were deep in the mud. Both had come wearing boxing gloves, already standing on opposite sides of the ring, ready for the countdown — and suddenly they were asked to stop everything and begin thinking about something far, far away: an optimal state.

He managed to go along with it first. He thought for a moment and said:

“For me, an optimal relationship would be that we don’t fight, that we stop getting angry. That we won’t be sour all the time. That whenever we’re home together there won’t be something heavy between us. No fights, no anger.”

He kept describing this until I stopped him and said:

“Look how even your dream is still very far from something truly bright. If the maximum you can imagine is no fighting, no anger, no heaviness 

you’re describing a ceasefire agreement. But not peace.

And if peace — then at most like the peace between Israel and Egypt. No visits, Israelis don’t vacation in Cairo and Egyptians don’t visit Tel Aviv. Yes, we try not to kill each other.

Is that your maximum?

Is this your ‚nitah kein farfallen‘? That nothing is lost, and therefore maybe we’ll still manage to live without anger, fights, shouting, and bitterness?!

Try to imagine peace like the peace with the United Arab Emirates — full flights back and forth with tourists, flourishing businesses, everyone celebrating. Do you have the courage and ability to dream about something like that between you?”

“I need a few shots of l’chaim to imagine that,” he told me with a painful smile.

We were silent for a few minutes. Then he spoke — actually, they both spoke — because they had both calmed down a little and completed each other’s thoughts:

“Optimally: that we will want to be together. That we will feel most at home with each other. That there will be joy and love and friendship. That every meeting, whether morning or evening, will bring a smile and happiness. That every message between us will spark something — maybe even longing, even excitement. That the home will be warm and joyful.”

And they continued, painting for themselves the destination they were aiming toward.

By the way — they are on their way there.

Because ‚nitah kein farfallen‘ doesn’t speak only about the chance that we won’t collapse or fall apart. “Nothing is lost” should apply especially when we are living in mediocrity and refuse to accept it — when we continue striving for excellence because nothing is lost.

If you are living in a situation that is merely “okay” in any area of life and you accept it because “this won’t change in this lifetime” — this is the moment to stop and say:

Today is ‚Pesach Sheni‘. Nothing is lost. There is no such thing as a life in which there is no longer a chance for things to become enjoyable, amazing, pleasant, excellent — with financial wellbeing and emotional and spiritual wellbeing.

Nothing is lost.

And therefore this is the time to pause for a moment in the race of life, look toward the horizon, and try to imagine how our lives could be much better — our parenting, our marriage, our material life, and our spiritual life.

Because ‚nitah kein farfallen‘.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski