www.chabadbasel.com | Blogs | Rabbi's weekly Blog

Even greater good

Fri, 26 Jun 2026 6:16:00 AM

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

Go out and act

Fri, 19 Jun 2026 4:48:00 AM

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

Turn the world upside down today!

Fri, 12 Jun 2026 5:33:00 AM

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

What Do You Think About When You Say “With G-d’s Help”?

Fri, 5 Jun 2026 6:12:00 AM

“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

Anyone can be a Levi

Fri, 29 May 2026 12:27:00 AM

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

Have You Heard About the “Age Fifty Crisis”?

Fri, 15 May 2026 7:58:00 AM

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 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