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My relationship with the concept of Kabbalat Ol

Fri, 8 May 2026 5:44:00 AM

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

Step out of the boxing ring

Fri, 1 May 2026 5:40:00 AM

“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

The rabbi who refused to speak for free

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 5:12:00 AM

There once was a holy rabbi who would not agree to deliver a sermon unless he received payment.
His fee was not high, and he certainly was not a materialistic person. We are speaking about a holy Jew named Rabbi Mendel Barer, one of the disciples of Rabbi Yisrael Baal Shem Tov, whom the Baal Shem Tov himself called “the holy rabbi, a wonder of the generation, a man of G-d.” And yet, he would not preach without receiving payment in advance.

It sounds surprising when speaking about a person of such stature, but he had a fascinating explanation. He said: Who am I to rebuke another Jew? By what right should I do this? In the times of the Temple there were prophets whom G-d Himself commanded to bring His word to the people—even to say difficult things when necessary. But today, when we do not have such instruction, I am willing to speak and express my opinion about the behavior of others only if I must.

So when I am given a few coins for a sermon, I become obligated to speak. Why? Because according to the Torah I am obligated to provide for my household. My profession is that of a preacher. In other words, the tool with which I support my family is delivering sermons, and when I am paid I am not allowed to refuse. Moreover, I actually have an obligation to speak—I am fulfilling a mitzvah.

The Rebbe shared this story on the 21st of Av, 5744 (1984), together with a heartfelt plea—not to rebuke or speak harshly about another Jew unless one has been instructed by G-d to do so.

The Rebbe was essentially saying: Do not choose for yourself the doubtful honor of being the one who rebukes and reprimands, the one who points out and emphasizes another person’s shortcomings. Speak good, not bad.

For the past few months, I have removed from my phone the apps known as “social networks.” When I removed them, it was mainly to free up time that was being wasted—but as the days and weeks passed, I discovered that beyond the extra time, a great deal of clean space opened up in my mind and heart as well. It’s simple logic: when you read less negativity, sarcasm, criticism, and even hatred from every direction, you carry less and less of that poison with you.

I recommend that everyone try taking a break—their soul will thank them. 🌿

In any case, on this Shabbat of Parshat Acharei Mot–Kedoshim, when we read the verse “Love your fellow as yourself,”I would like to take this upon myself and suggest to all my dear readers that before we speak about another person, before we write to someone, before we press “send,” we pause for just one moment to make sure it aligns well with “Love your fellow as yourself.”

Shabbat Shalom

A wonderful tool for coping with life

Fri, 17 Apr 2026 5:07:00 AM

The following text is not meant for perfect people who go through life at ease; rather, it is intended for people who are somewhat traumatized, wounded, sporting here and there a scar or some emotional pain.

How do you react when something that you wanted very much didn’t happen?

I’m talking about the small stuff.

Let’s say you planned to go on vacation, and the hotel you chose was not what it looked like in the brochure. How do you react?

You know what? Not how you react, but what and how do you feel?

And if the rented car is no good and not what you wanted, to what extent do the feelings of disappointment, failure, or having been taken advantage of, prevent you from enjoying the sense of rest that this vacation was supposed to provide you with?

Let’s say, even, that due to a mistake on your part – or not – you ended up paying much more than you had planned to. To what extent does it stop you from moving on?

And if it doesn’t really stop you practically speaking, because you do pull yourself together, how much energy is devoted to overcoming these feelings of disappointment and failure?

Personally, this is the type of thing that I cope with frequently, and it’s not easy. In recent years I have found a “tool” that helps me cope with it excellently, and not only a one-time, temporary basis, but rather as a slow and profound fixing of that part of me that gets angry or disappointed when things get stuck.

This tool is called “Tazria-Metzora”.

I once learned a talk of the Rebbe for parashat Tazria-Metzora (section 22), in which the Rebbe asks why most of the details regarding the laws of the metzora appear in parashat Tazria? And remember – right after it there is a parasha named Metzora. Why this disorder?

The talk is long, deep and fascinating, and touches on several levels in the life of a person and the nation as a whole, but I received personal illumination when I learned the Rebbe’s explanation that Tazria expresses the beginning of new life – be it plant, animal or human. All life begins with planting. The moment of planting is not yet a new life, but it is the beginning of one.

A metzora is someone who is afflicted with tzara’at (ordinarily translated as leprosy), the goal of which is really to signal to him to change his ways. Usually it’s a matter of lashon hara (harmful speech) that needs attention.

The laws of the metzora appear in parashat Tazriato tell you: Don’t see the tzara’at as an independent affliction, disconnected from the past and the future; this tzara’at can turn very quickly into the planting of a new life. If you just stop and think what this tzara’at is coming to teach you, you will see the glimmer of a new life.

At the moment that I experience disappointment and failure or any other similar feeling, I attempt to stop the flow of feelings building up inside me (and it’s not at all easy at that moment) and say to myself: “Tazria Metzora” – what is this event coming to teach me? What lesson is there in it for me? It must be that I need some further cleansing, because this story is more one of Tazria than of Metzora.

And there is another thing that the Rebbe brings there from Likutei Torah ofBa’al Hatanya – no less profound. It says in the Torah “Adam - a person – who has in the skin of his flesh” – remember that when you have tzara’at you are still an adam – a person, which is your highest definition. And the tzara’at is only “in the skin of the flesh” – not inside. Inside, you are clean, pure and healthy. Your blemish is external, in the skin. True, sometimes it seems that it’s internal, but that is not the truth. Really, you are clean, pure, good and worthy.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

It was a dramatic event

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 7:05:00 AM

It was a dramatic event – one of the most dramatic and suspenseful ones that we have ever experienced as a nation. Millions of people standing in the desert, waiting for a special moment, a sign from Heaven that will show recognition and tell them: “It’s O.K., I’ve forgiven you. We are together once again.” But nothing was happening…

It all started with the Sin of the Golden Calf, forty days after the giving of the Torah, when the people made a golden calf to worship. Many months had gone by since then, during which Moshe Rabbeinu (our teacher) succeeded, with much determination and loving devotion to his flock, to obtain the sought-for forgiveness from Hashem. That happened on Yom Kippur, and on the very next day the order was given: “They will make Me a Mikdash (temple) and I will dwell amongst them.” A communal sigh of relief followed, together with inner joy: Not only does Hashem forgive, but he is interested in renewing His relationship with us.

The people grabbed the opportunity with both hands, donating everything they had quickly and enthusiastically, in order to build the Mishkan (Tabernacle) for Hashem as fast as possible, to make the promise “And I will dwell amongst them” come true, thus sealing the embarrassing saga of the calf…

Everything was ready. For seven days, from the 23rd of Adar until Rosh Chodesh Nissan, they build the Mishkan and dismantled it every day, brought offerings – all so that the fire would come down and accept those offerings, accept their service, dedicate the Mishkan they had built with their own hands and make it into a House of G-d. But it didn’t happen! For seven successive days they did everything – and there was no response from Heaven. It is impossible to describe the feeling – the magnitude of the pain and the disappointment. An entire nation was waiting, really and truly, for the Divine Presence to show itself, that the nation’s deeds should be accepted, and so far – nothing…

And then the eighth day arrived. “On the eighth day, Moshe called to Aharon and his sons and the elders of Israel. And he said to Aharon: take a calf… and sacrifice it before Hashem.” Specifically a calf – “to announce that Hashem atones, by way of this calf, for the incident with the calf.” Aharon felt uncomfortable, and somewhat embarrassed. “This is beyond me,” he said. But Moshe did not give in and said, “Why are you embarrassed? This is what you were chosen to do!” “Come near to the altar… and provide atonement for yourself and for the people.” Aharon approached the altar, and did everything he had been told to do, exactly according to the instructions. But – nothing! Nada! No Divine Presence, no fire from Heaven. He left the Mishkan, looked at the millions – men, women and children – their eyes on him, expressing hope and longing. It is as if they were asking him, “Nu? Did you succeed?” And Aharon was upset and said to himself: “I know that Hashem is angry at me, and it is due to me that the Divine Presence has not come down!”

Aharon then turned to Moshe: “Moshe, my brother, this is what you did to me, that I entered and was embarrassed?!” Immediately, Moshe entered with him and they prayed for mercy for the people, and then they came out and blessed the people with the best blessing in the world: “May it be that the Divine Presence will rest upon your endeavors.”

And then it happened: “A fire went forth from before Hashem and consumed upon the Altar.” Fire came down and accepted the offering, thus accepting back the people completely, and also accepting and dedicating the Mishkan to be a House of G-d.

“The people saw and sang glad song and fell upon their faces.” It is impossible to describe the powerful outburst of joy and song, which translated immediately into awe combined with deep-felt gratitude: “They fell upon their faces.” I get goose-pimples every year on Parashat Shemini, when I imagine the scene.

There is a message here that I take with me – for my life: to pray and to ask! Even if I’ve done everything right, and everything should work, I stop a moment by the side of the road, and as Moshe and Aharon did on the eighth day, I say a chapter of Tehillim and carry a prayer in my heart: “May the Divine Presence rest upon my endeavors.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I feel it is an honor to belong to this people

Fri, 20 Mar 2026 5:07:00 AM

The people of Israel in the Land of Israel are coping with great courage. I hear from my parents and my siblings, who find themselves in shelters several times a day, one consistent request: just don’t stop in the middle - we are ready to keep getting up at night and running to the shelters in order to finish this.

The last time I personally heard a siren was when I was 14, during the First Gulf War. But those who have been living with this reality for years - they are true heroes.
I feel it is an honor to belong to this people.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The Hebrew language is wonderful and unique

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 4:56:00 AM

The Hebrew language is wonderful and unique in many respects. One of its special features is the ability to play with the meaning of words through vowelization (nikud). In other words, the same word, the same letters, with different vowel points, can give the word a different meaning. Sometimes the meaning is simply different, sometimes even opposite—yet still connected, because often there is a relationship between the different meanings of the same word.

For example, the Hebrew word לרצות (lirtzot) can be understood either in the sense of desire/wanting (ratzon) or in the sense of appeasing (ritzui). On the surface, the one who wants and the one who appeases seem quite different, but if we look more deeply, we see that there is a profound connection between them.

The word משכן (Mishkan) appears in the Torah with the meaning of a place that contains the dwelling of the Creator, as He Himself commanded: “And they shall make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” However, with different vowelization—if we place a cholam above the letter כ—the word משכן can be read as something that is taken as collateral, which in full spelling would be משכון (mashkon).

On the first verse of Parashat Pekudei, “These are the accounts of the Mishkan, the Mishkan of testimony,” Rashi comments on the repetition of the word “Mishkan, Mishkan.” Rashi explains that the word Mishkan here alludes to mashkon—a pledge or collateral—hinting to the two Temples that were taken as collateral twice, each one at the time of its destruction.

At first glance, this might seem like a beautiful play on words: once Mishkan and once Mashkon. How lovely the Holy Tongue is—here we have a hint to the destruction of the Temple embedded in the word itself. But Rashi likely was not merely searching for clever wordplay. If he includes something in his commentary on the Torah, it must contain a profound and essential message.

On Shabbat Parashat Vayakhel–Pekudei in the year 1972, the Rebbe delivered a remarkable discourse on this Rashi. I truly recommend reading or listening to the entire talk (it exists in many languages, presented by different lecturers. Search online for “Project Likkutei Sichot,” and in the archive look for Volume 11, Pekudei II). Among other things, the Rebbe focused on the shift in the meaning of the word Mishkan and explained that Rashi is conveying a very significant message—one that is relevant to each and every one of us. The meaning of a pledge (mashkon) is that the object itself has not been destroyed. It has not disappeared. It has merely been taken as collateral, to be returned in its full state at the proper time.

Yes, the physical Temple was indeed burned and destroyed. But its essence—being the dwelling place of God in this world and the gateway connecting the physical and the spiritual, between the Holy One and His creations, between this world and the higher worlds—remains. As our forefather Jacob said: “This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” That essence was neither burned nor destroyed; it was taken as collateral, as Rashi says here: “a hint to the Temple that was taken as a pledge in two destructions.”

Still, what did happen to the gate of heaven when the Temple was destroyed?

In Tractate Berakhot we read: “Rabbi Elazar said: From the day the Temple was destroyed, the gates of prayer were closed.” Does this mean that our prayers have no meaning? Does it mean that we no longer have a way to elevate our prayers above?

To my understanding, when a gate is locked, one simply needs to knock harder so that someone will hear and come to open it. When the gate of heaven was open, prayers passed through more easily. When it is closed, perhaps we must put a bit more effort into our prayer so that it can rise above the gate—or be heard even through its closed doors. And perhaps this is the explanation for the continuation of Rabbi Elazar’s statement: “Even though the gates of prayer were closed, the gates of tears were not closed.”

On the eve of the month of redemption, I wish and pray that the saying of the Talmud will be fulfilled in our days: “In Nisan they were redeemed, and in Nisan they will be redeemed in the future.”

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I looked for an anchor

Fri, 6 Mar 2026 5:42:00 AM

I looked for an anchor within the historic days we are living through—not only during the past week, but throughout this recent period, and especially since Simchat Torah 5784. The transition from a terrible hester panim—a divine concealment so horrifying that we never dreamed something like it could happen again after the Holocaust—to a state of ga’on Yaakov, where Jews gather together and stand up for their lives to fight their enemies. Amid all these turbulent events, I searched for an anchor—something that would frame the moment, that would provide a point through which one could look and understand everything.

This week, I found it.

When Alexander Grodetsky, 95 years old, presented the Rebbe’s emissary in Russia, Rabbi Berel Lazar, with a miniature yet fully kosher Megillat Esther about 200 years old—a scroll that his great-grandfather had given him. His great-grandfather was born in 1870, long before the Soviet Revolution and long before the many upheavals that the world in general, and the Jewish world in particular, have undergone. This tiny megillah had been somewhere in an attic in Russia all those years, serving as an anchor for an old man who had seen much and knew where everything had begun.

The Baal Shem Tov explained the Mishnah’s statement: “One who reads the Megillah backwards has not fulfilled his obligation.” The simple meaning is that the Megillah must be read according to the order of events—and therefore according to the order of the chapters. The Baal Shem Tov added: “One who reads the Megillah as though it were an event that happened back then—in the past—has not fulfilled his obligation.” For all the stories of the Torah, and the Megillah in particular, are not merely historical narratives; they are also—and primarily—contemporary stories.

The megillah that Sasha Grodetsky gave to the Chief Rabbi of Russia this week seemed to cry out: I am not “back then”! True, I come from the past—but I am not the past. The megillah was written long before we knew what the internet or smartphones were, and certainly long before artificial intelligence. Yet it is far more current, relevant, and filled with a stable and clear message for our times than its new competitors. A scroll written with quill and ink on parchment comes from the past—and brings clarity to the future.

When we blotted out the memory of Amalek on the morning of last Shabbat at Chabad House, we did not know that Khamenei would also be erased. And when we said in the Torah reading, “May He who blessed the soldiers of Israel on land, in the air, and at sea bless them,” we did not know that they had already locked the crosshairs onto Ahmadinejad. But we did know how to say, at the close of Shabbat during Havdalah, the verse written in the Megillah: “For the Jews there was light and joy, gladness and honor.” And we added: “So may it be for us—Kos yeshuot esa u’veshem Hashem ekra—I will raise the cup of salvations and call upon the name of the Lord.”

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

What are the chances that we are still captive to a conception?

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 9:31:00 PM

I am not speaking about us as a people, nor in a national or political context. I am speaking about us as individuals, about me and about you as individuals. What are the chances that I am captive to a conception?

So what is a conception, really?
A conception is darkness disguised as light.

There is darkness that clearly appears as darkness. We are not willing to accept that kind of darkness; rather, we fight it and do everything we can to drive it away and replace it with light.

But there is another kind of darkness, defined as double and compounded darkness, darkness so dark that one does not even see that it is dark, and instead believes that it is light. And when one thinks it is light, one does not fight the darkness. This is a state in which a person is convinced that what exists is good and right, that it is light and not darkness. Or at the very least, he is convinced that this is the situation, that it will not change, and therefore he supposedly accepts the situation, and that is that.

When in truth, there is a very real chance that what appears to be light is actually darkness disguised as light. And if I merit and succeed, I may one day see that the light I was living with was in fact darkness. And from the moment I recognize and acknowledge that it is darkness, I will begin to act, to change the situation, to drive away the darkness and bring light.

There are two forms of this double and compounded darkness, meaning darkness that may be disguised as light.

One is a person who genuinely sees all his actions and conduct as light, as good and correct. And perhaps it truly is so, but perhaps not. Maybe he is captive to a conception, and that light is actually darkness.

The more common case is a person who knows that the situation is not great, but has decided that this is a Heavenly decree or fate, this is the situation and that is it. In other words, the fact that this is the situation, that this is reality and there is nothing to do but accept it, is as clear and bright to him as daylight. And therefore, he accepts reality instead of working to change it. But maybe he is captive to a conception, and this reality is an illusion, and that light is actually darkness.

Take parenting, for example. A person can be completely confident in his educational approach with his children, convinced that he is doing the right thing, certain that he sees light, when in fact it is entirely possible, and perhaps to his good fortune it will become clear later in life, likely thanks to one child or another, that he was walking in darkness, that his educational path was incorrect, and that he was captive to the conception that darkness was light. Incidentally, in my opinion, this happens to many of us at some point around the age of forty, thank G d.

Take livelihood. This week I met a friend who told me he is an accountant by profession. When I asked how business is, he said that in the past it was sufficient, but today less so. He immediately added that it is G d who determines who will be poor and who will be rich. When I asked whether there is a way for him to increase his income, or at least act in that direction, he answered no, there is no way. There are limitations of time and place. But it is fine. It is not the main thing in life.

I asked him, maybe you are captive to a conception? Maybe you are locked into the belief that this is the only way, and because of the faith that this is a Heavenly decree, you no longer even try to change the fate you have decided was decreed upon you? Perhaps if you were willing to shatter that point of thinking, or at least place a question mark on the assertion that this is the situation and it will not change, you might find a way to increase your income by fifty percent, or even double it.

Take marriage. How many of us are certain that we are living in a wonderful situation and everything is good, or at least that this is what there is and one must accept it, and that is it? And perhaps all that seems to me like light is actually a dark conception. After all, there is a real chance that what appears to be light is in fact a conception, darkness disguised as light. As someone said to me last week, this is my wife, this is the situation, and that is it, I accept it with love. And he even feels that he is honoring her by accepting her with love.

And also, and perhaps especially, in personal spiritual life. People want to be men and women of Torah and kindness, yet often accept the fact that they are not as an established reality. I am not capable of learning Gemara. I will not manage to finish a tractate. I will not be one of those who open their home to guests or those in need because it is too hard for me, and that is it. I will not manage to get up early. I am not someone who can attend a class during the week. And so on. How many times do I hear people say, listen, this is who I am, and it probably will not change. And then I ask, but maybe this is a conception? Maybe you are captive to a state of that is it and nothing can be changed, instead of refusing to accept what you decided is reality as a final given, defining it as darkness and beginning to search for the light.

In Chassidic discourses connected to the festival of Purim, this darkness is described as darkness so deep that it appears to us as light. In the discourse On That Night - Balaila Hahu, delivered in 1965, the Rebbe builds on the teaching of the Baal Shem Tov regarding the Gemara in Tractate Chullin. Where is Esther alluded to in the Torah? As it is written, And I shall I shall hide, I shall hide My face - Aster Astir Panay. Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov explains that when the concealment is doubled, I shall hide, I shall hide, this refers to a state in which the concealment itself is concealed. The Rebbe explains that Balaila Hahu-On That Night defines such a darkness. For night as opposed to day is darkness, and that as opposed to this is also darkness.

For example, when the Children of Israel left Egypt, the Torah says, On this night all the hosts of G d went out of the land of Egypt. That was a case of this night, because it was quite clear what was darkness and what was light. One could easily point to the night and say, this, here it is, present, and therefore it was clear that one must fight it and bring light in its place.

But there are situations of that night, where the night is not present and clear as this, but rather exists as a hidden that, concealed and disguised as light. And this is precisely the work of Purim, to identify that hidden night, to present it as a clear and present this night, and then to begin changing the situation.

Dear friends, Purim is approaching, with its costumes, its v’nahafoch hu, and its ad d’lo yada. This is the time to examine all of this with courage, honesty, and seriousness. It requires inner humility, but in my opinion there is no choice. It is a shame to remain stuck behind a conception. There is a good chance that we are confusing Cursed is Haman with Blessed is Mordechai. There is a chance that what is required of us is a very real v’nahafoch hu. And who knows, perhaps we will yet discover that the costume we chose for Purim is, in fact, who we truly are.

Shabbat Shalom and a Happy Purim,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Where there is light and warmth, it is also kosher

Thu, 19 Feb 2026 4:55:00 PM

There was once a very special and beloved person in Kfar Chabad. His name was R. Meir Friedman, and he used to tell the following story:

As is usual among Jews, a rumor started going around the village that the village’s Shochet (slaughterer) is not G-d fearing and therefore one cannot rely on his Shechitah. This, of course, affected his livelihood – negatively.

The Ruzhiner Rebbe heard about this, and he decided to send a Chassid of his to the home of the Shochet.

The Chassid knocked on the door of the Shochet without telling him the reason for his visit. The Shochet and his family welcomed him warmly, lit candles for him and gave him a bowl of hot soup to warm him up after being out in the cold winter weather.

When the Chassid returned to the Ruzhiner Rebbe and told him about the visit, the Ruzhiner got up and announced: “Where there is light and warmth, it is also kosher.”

In this week’s Parasha, Parashat Terumah, we learn about the making of the golden Menorah. It had branches decorated with “Kaftorim” (“knobs), “Prachim” (“flowers”) and also “Gevi’im” (“cups”). There were twenty-two cups altogether, three on each of the six branches, and four on the central branch – all made of pure gold. The Rambam, when drawing the Menorah, positioned the cups upside-down, so that the wider rims of the cups point downward, and the narrower bottoms – upwards.

The Rebbe in his Likutei Sichot, 21, gives a special (and characteristic) meaning to the reason for the upside-down cups, and connects it with the overall goal of the Beit Mikdash (Temple), which is to light up the world with goodness and holiness. Says the Rebbe: When the cup is not upside-down, it is a vessel that can hold something. In other words, it can hold the wine or the water that is put into it, and it keeps it to itself. But when one wants to give and influence, to pour from the cup, one turns the cup over, so that its wide rim faces downward.

The Menorah of the Temple was not intended only to light up the sanctuary itself, as Rabbi Zerikah says in the name of Rabbi Elazar in tractate Menachot (86b): “I don’t need its light… it is evidence to the whole world that the Shechinah (Divine Presence) rests upon Israel.” The Menorah was intended to give light and Heavenly warmth to everyone in this world.

And so, it is fitting that the Menorah should have upside-down cups, indicating an act of pouring out and giving, and not a state of storing, holding onto the contents.

We have no Beit Mikdash today, but we can warm the world and light it up, and we are even commanded to do so. We can even pour for others: hot soup, a cup of tea, or a cup of L’Chaim if necessary. The main thing is to influence, give, radiate light and warmth, because then it becomes evident, as the Ruzhiner said: “where there is light and warmth, it is also kosher.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Money, kesef, also expresses longing and love

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 4:57:00 AM

Hear a teaching that the Rebbe said on Parashat Mishpatim, 5712 (1952):

The verse states: If you lend money to My people, to the poor person who is with you, you shall not act toward him as a creditor.

On the simple level, this verse speaks of the obligation of a Jew to give a loan—an act of kindness—to his fellow Jew, even if he is poor and there is concern that he may not be able to repay. In addition, “you shall not act toward him as a creditor” means that one may not pressure him forcefully, especially if one knows that he does not have the means to repay.

The Rebbe bases this on the words of our Sages in the Midrash on the verse from Parashat Mishpatim, “He tells His words to Jacob.” The attributes of G-d are not like those of flesh and blood. Flesh and blood instruct others to act while they themselves do nothing. G-d is not so; rather, whatever He Himself does, He tells Israel to do and to observe.

When G-d commands us to lend money to His people, He Himself fulfills this command. He gives us life as a loan: the power to succeed, our talents, the parents we were born to, the environment in which we grow, and even the most basic thing of all—breathing without external assistance. All of this we receive from Him as a loan, in order to repay it gradually through positive and good actions that align with His laws and ordinances, written in the guidebook of life, the Torah.

In the words of the Rebbe:
G-d gives a Jew matters and powers even though the Jew gives nothing to G-d in return. At the same time, G-d demands that the Jew utilize all the matters and powers given to him by G-d to fulfill His mission, and to repay the “loan” through His laws and ordinances.

If one asks why G-d gives all of this without asking for collateral, let us consider how things work in the world. To whom does a person give a loan without collateral and without any guarantee of return? Only to family, only to those he truly loves. When you love someone, you give—even when it is not entirely logical.

Money, kesef, also expresses longing and love. “Nichsof nichsafta lebeit avicha—you surely longed for your father’s house,” Lavan said to Jacob, expressing his understanding of Jacob’s desire to leave Haran and return home. Thus we may say: If you lend money to My people—the loving longing of G-d for His people is what causes Him to give a loan without demanding collateral, a long-term loan.

There is another essential point to remember: a loan is meant to be used. When one receives life and strength, talents and abilities from G-d as a loan, one betrays the purpose of the loan by not using them. As the Rebbe explains, the reason the granting of strength by G-d is called a loan is because this strength can be used even for personal and mundane matters, similar to a loan, which is given to be spent.

In the natural order of the world, a loan is given to someone who inspires confidence—someone who shows that he knows how to conduct himself properly, how to use the loan wisely, and how to repay it. Yet the loan of G-d is given even to the poor. Even a person who feels poor in abilities and actions, even one whose heart is broken and crushed within him—to him as well G-d gives a loan. Indeed, precisely because he is poor, G-d is found specifically with the broken and crushed heart.

And one cannot conclude without the most characteristic ending of a true lover of Israel, the Rebbe of Lubavitch. The verse concludes, “You shall not act toward him as a creditor.” As the Rambam rules clearly: anyone who pressures a poor person while knowing that he has nothing with which to repay violates a negative commandment, as it is stated, “You shall not act toward him as a creditor.” G-d fulfills this law as well.

Thus the Rebbe said in the year 5712, only seven years after the horrific Holocaust: when the demand of G-d, through the left line and through suffering, accomplishes nothing, regarding this it is said, “You shall not act toward him as a creditor.”

This follows the words of Isaiah: Why should you be struck further? You continue to rebel. What benefit is there in striking you, if you are not corrected by it, and even after the blows you continue to stray? Therefore, when G-d sees that conduct through the left line achieves nothing, He begins again with the right line—drawing close with kindness and compassion, with revealed and manifest good.

The Rebbe concluded with a prayer, and perhaps also with a statement of certainty: surely G-d will bestow all that is needed—children, life, and abundant sustenance. As the Torah says in our parashah: He will bless your bread and your water, remove illness from your midst; there shall be no miscarriage or barrenness in your land; the number of your days I will fill.

In simple terms: those who have not yet been blessed with children will be blessed this year with living and enduring offspring; those lacking health will be granted proper health; and those lacking livelihood will be granted sustenance in abundance, according to the boundless capacity of G-d, from His full, open, holy, and expansive hand.

And may we merit the coming of our righteous Mashiach, below ten handbreadths, speedily and truly in our days.

Shabbat Shalom

You won’t understand

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 7:00:00 AM

On Monday afternoon I was at a factory in central Switzerland. There was a demand for Kashering a production line, and the task was assigned to me. I walked around there with several of the workers among the tanks and pipes, and then we sat down to wait for the temperature to finally reach the boiling point. In the meantime, a conversation developed between us that drifted to the situation in the Holy Land, when suddenly I glanced at my phone and saw the message: “The IDF has found Ran Guiili,” and immediately after that a message from Talik, his extraordinary mother: “First to go out, last to return – our hero.”

They didn’t see the message, but they did see that I was tearing up, and they immediately asked, “What happened?”

I told them: “You won’t understand. They found Ran Guiili.” They tried to figure out whether we were relatives, maybe close friends, perhaps acquaintances, or whether they had once visited the Chabad House in Basel. Eventually they gave up and admitted that they really didn’t understand why the fact that the bones of an anonymous policeman were found in Gaza would cause me to weep with emotion—of joy and gratitude—in the Bern area.

Seven hundred soldiers searched for Rani Guiili—seven hundred soldiers, and behind them an entire people, everywhere in the world, holding its breath in sincere and unified prayer: that they would find him, that they would return his bones to his mother and to his people.

I allow myself to assume that it is somewhat jarring to read the word “bones” in the context of Rani Guiili or any other captive who was no longer alive. It is very jarring. And the truth is that for many years already—ever since the Torah tells us, in the portion we studied this week, Parashat Beshalach—“And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him, for he had made the children of Israel solemnly swear, saying: God will surely remember you, and you shall bring up my bones from here with you”—the Torah chooses the words “the bones of Joseph” instead of something more respectful, such as Joseph’s coffin, or simply Joseph.

Joseph the righteous—the king who cared for his family and his people, the one who was captive for more than twenty years in Egypt—“bones,” is that what he is?

The Rebbe asks this question in Likkutei Sichot, volume 26. True, in his oath Joseph used this expression about himself, as stated at the end of the verse, “and you shall bring up my bones from here with you.” But since this is not an expression of honor toward the righteous, the Torah should have said, “And Moses took (the coffin of) Joseph with him,” and not used the expression “the bones of Joseph.”

And as usual, in just a few words the Rebbe gives an inner, deep, and powerful meaning to the choice of the word “bones.” One can say that this is precisely what the Torah intends to emphasize: that in the Exodus from Egypt, Moses took with him the “bones of Joseph”—bones are called so because they are the essence and the strength of a person and of a living being—he took Joseph’s very essence, Joseph’s core being and purpose.

The Rebbe continues in the discourse to explain beautifully what Joseph’s essence was—what was the most essential thing about Joseph that Moses in fact brought up with him from the land of Egypt, so that it would be with them throughout the journey in the desert and serve as a source of strength and power.

The body of Rani Guiili has returned, but far more than that: his essence has returned, and it breathes into us a spirit of strength and self-sacrifice, love of Israel and devotion of soul. Not only him—every one of the heroes of the war, for whom a very significant circle was closed this week, brought with him strength in his very bones.

A bone is a simple thing, and therefore there is a similarity between one bone and another. A bone does not tell you about the different shades of human beings; a bone does not see differences. It only reveals the essential point, which is quite similar among people—and especially among the people of this nation, the people of Israel.

This is what Talik, Rani’s amazing mother, said in the eulogy this week: “Over the course of these two years I have heard many eulogies for the heroes of the War of Revival, and every eulogy reminded me of you. The same values and the same spirit—as if they copied you one by one.”

And what always amazes me most: all these people—all the fighters and the captives, the fallen and the living, all these Rani Guiilis—are all ordinary people, standard, everyday people, people who live alongside us even today. And somehow, in one moment of truth, their essence emerges and is revealed; the divine overcomes the animalistic, the spiritual rises above the material.

In that essence they showed everyone that we are one people, one big family that weeps and is moved together with anonymous members of its own—from Bondi Beach to Meitar.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Be a miracle, and the Almighty will make a miracle for you

Thu, 8 Jan 2026 7:59:00 AM

He did not manage to keep everything while he was there in Soviet Russia at the end of the 1950s. He tried, but it was simply too difficult. As a result, his kitchen was not fully kosher, because obtaining kosher products was extremely hard, almost impossible. And their bedroom was not necessarily kosher either, because getting to a mikvah required real self-sacrifice.

Yet he was a Jew whom the Chabad chassidim in Chernivtsi trusted.
He was invited to farbrengens and underground prayer gatherings. The chassidim spoke to him many times, encouraging him to make the extra effort to have a kosher kitchen and a kosher bedroom. He always answered: “It’s impossible, here it’s impossible. With G-d’s help, when I get to Eretz then I will be able to, and with G-d’s help I will immediately keep everything kosher.”

Once, at a farbrengen, he turned to my grandfather, who had only recently returned from the Gulag, where they had not really succeeded in “re-educating” him, and said:
“Reb Moshe, it is well known that what a chassidic farbrengen can accomplish, even the angel Michael cannot. Please, take a small cup, say l’chaim, and bless me that I should be able to leave this place and reach Eretz Yisrael.”

My father, may he live long, who remembers this as if it were yesterday, tells that my grandfather, Rabbi Moshe - whose fortieth yahrzeit we marked just last week - took quite a bit of mashke and said to him:
“You are asking for a miracle. You are truly asking for a miracle. Because in those days, even dreaming of leaving Russia for the Land of Israel was a miracle in every sense.”

And then my grandfather cried out with love from the depths of his heart in Yiddish:
“Be a miracle, and the Almighty will make a miracle for you.”
Give Him a kosher kitchen and a kosher bedroomת and He will give you an exit from Russia.

The meaning and the connection were not explained to me; the story was told to me as I have written it. I reflected on it. In Chassidut we learn that a miracle is a “suspension of the laws of nature.” That is, when a miracle occurs, the Holy One, blessed be He, folds up the laws of nature: water stands still instead of flowing, the sun stands still in Gibeon, a sick person whom nature gives no chance recovers, and those whom nature predicts will not have children are granted a miracle and embrace a baby.

So my grandfather, as I understand it, was crying out to him: overturn your natural order for the sake of G-d, and in that merit you will be granted that G-d overturns the natural order for you.

In Likkutei Sichot, vol. 16, the Rebbe explains that the Egyptians did not believe in a higher power that intervenes in the laws of nature. Yes, there is a G-d who created the world — but from that point on, it is governed by natural law. The Nile was the symbol of this belief. While in the Land of Israel one depends on rain from Heaven to survive, Egypt has a source from the earth that sustains it — the Nile. As Rashi explains in Parashat Miketz: “The Nile rises within them and waters them, because rain does not fall in Egypt regularly as it does in other lands.”

In other words, the Egyptians claim there is no need to pray for a miracle — there is no miracle. There is the Nile. There is the river.

Accordingly, when Pharaoh decrees, “Every newborn son you shall cast into the river,” he is essentially saying: educate the Jews that the source of life is the river, the Nile — nature, the water that already exists — and not a higher power.

Moses, by contrast, seeks to serve G-d and to pray to G-d.

And the secret is quite simple: as long as we submit to the laws of nature and live only by them, our lives will follow the path of nature. From the moment we raise the banner of faith in G-d — who brings everything into being, who has the power to overturn the laws of nature and perform miracles — we live on the path of miracle.

That is likely what my grandfather was saying to that Jew:
You want a miracle? Be a miracle — and G-d will make a miracle for you.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The code of release

Thu, 1 Jan 2026 12:01:00 PM

A moment before Yosef died and left his brothers and their fate in the hands of Pharaoh, King of Egypt, he gave them the code of release from that land. At the time of Yosef’s death, life was still good. They had autonomy in the land of Goshen, and as members of the family of Yaakov and Yosef they were honored and respected citizens of Egypt. But when Yosef told them, “G-d will redeem you from Egypt,” it was clear that the good life was about to be over, and soon they would be in a situation that would require redemption.

In the few sentences that Yosef said to them in his last minutes, he repeated twice the phrase pakod yifkod: “G-d pakod yifkod (will surely remember) you and bring you up out of this land.” Our Sages in the midrashtaught us that this word combination was the code that Yosef gave his brothers, so that when the time would come they would know to identify the redeemer. And, indeed, what Moshe Rabbeinu said to them when he came to take them out of Egypt was “Pakod pakadeti” – I have surely remembered.

The exile in Egypt, being the first exile of our people, teaches us about our national and personal lives today. The prophet Michah, when he speaks about the future redemption, says so explicitly: “Like in the days of your going out of the land of Egypt, I will show him (the Jewish People) wonders.”

I learn from that, that in every exile, difficulty, descent, falling and challenge – big or small, personal or national – the code of the transition from exile to redemption is there, having been prepared ahead of time.

This is a great help, and helps us cope, because the very knowledge that together with the difficulty and downfall there is a secret code, ready to take one up and grow, is enough to give us the strength to continue to cope, move ahead, and act. Sometimes we have to search for the code, and sometimes we just have to wait until it comes to us, but always, always we must live with the belief that it exists, and that someday it will come into use.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I draw strength from Beni

Fri, 19 Dec 2025 5:43:00 AM

At the end of such a difficult and intense week, after turbulent events, and above all, the horrific terror attack at Bondi Beach in Sydney, I draw strength from a small, innocent, and sweet child named Beni.

Seven-year-old Beni attends a public elementary school in Basel, and on Sundays he studies at JUDA, the Jewish Sunday school founded by my colleagues Rabbi Motti and Sara Gruzman at Chabad of Basel.

His mother told me that at the public school, the teacher was teaching the children about the Christian holiday approaching at the end of December. Beni raised his hand and said, “I don’t celebrate that holiday. I celebrate Chanukah.”
When the teacher asked what Chanukah is, Beni proudly and innocently explained everything he had learned at JUDA.

The teacher did not stop there, but asked that Beni’s mother and father come to explain to the entire class what Chanukah is. “And now, because of you, I have to prepare a Chanukah program for Beni’s whole class,” the mother concluded with a smile of joy and Jewish pride.

That’s our story. We simply keep moving forward, one Beni, and then another Beni.

Shabbat Shalom, a good month, and a happy Chanukah,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski