Rabbi's weekly Blog

Just one word – Truth. Yes, for me, the holiday of Purim is the deepest expression of this value – truth.  

On Purim, we drink a lot of wine, and in our circles, quite a bit of good vodka and whiskey as well, because on Purim, a Jew is supposed to drink "until he does not know". But no, not to revel and go wild—absolutely not! He is meant to drink significantly in order to uncover his inner truth, to fulfill the saying "When wine enters, secrets emerge" (the words "wine" and "secret" share the same numerical value in Gematria). Because when a drunk person tells you, "I don't like you," believe him. And even if the next day he apologizes and says, "Sorry, I was just drunk," know that yesterday, he spoke the truth!  

The costume also serves the same purpose. When a child dresses up as a police officer, it expresses a hidden but genuine and internal desire—he truly wants to be a police officer. And when I put on a clown's hat and a red pom-pom on my nose, it becomes easier for me to do "silly things" that I truly want to do, but my official "pose" as a rabbi does not allow me to. But with the pom-pom—I can! The truth comes to light.  

It is no coincidence that our sages in the Zohar referred to the most serious and truthful day of the year, Yom Kippur, as "Ki-Purim"—which means "like Purim." Because sometimes, one might think that Moishaleh, who is crying under his tallit on Yom Kippur, is not the same Moishaleh who celebrated quite differently just a week ago. But the truth is—it is the same Moishaleh! Only that on Yom Kippur, under his tallit, his inner self emerges. And the "costume" of angels on Yom Kippur—the white garments and fasting—certainly help the inner truth come out.  

Not every day is Purim. Not every day do we have the opportunity to touch and allow ourselves to experience our inner truth. It would be a shame to waste it on mere revelry and foolishness—this day is far too precious for that. Purim is a serious day. A serious joy. A serious introspection. But don’t be confused—a serious person does not have to put on a serious face. One can be serious—even with a red pom-pom on the nose.  

I wish us all a Purim filled with deep and genuine joy, with good health, true happiness from our children and family, and yes—a little satisfaction from ourselves as well.  

Happy Purim and Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

This week, ten years ago, I found myself—by Divine Providence—on a United Airlines flight from Tel Aviv to Newark. I can’t recall the last time before that when I had been on such a long flight.  

In my youth, when I traveled from Israel to the Rebbe, I almost always took connecting flights—both because they were usually cheaper and because, as a curious young man, I found it fascinating to land in another country, hear another language, and then board another plane (I must admit, I still find it fascinating today).  

So, when I flew eleven hours straight in Adar 5775, I started getting bored in the middle of the night and decided to wander around the darkened plane.  

I reached the galley, where there were hot and cold drinks and some Nature Valley cookies with a kosher certification. As I took a sip of my scorching hot tea, a man, older than me, turned to me and asked, "Are you a Chabadnik?" Without waiting for an answer, he immediately added, "Are you going to the Ohel?"  

"Yes, I am Chabad," I answered, "and yes, I am definitely traveling to the Rebbe’s resting place—the Ohel."  

"Tell me," he asked again, "Can one visit the Rebbe on Shabbat?"  

I explained to him that the Ohel is open 24/7, but if he was asking my opinion, I told him that it’s not appropriate to drive there on Shabbat.  

He shushed me and added, "That’s between me and the Rebbe. I visited him once, in 1975, on Simchat Torah with my uncle, and I will never forget the look in his eyes."  

I reassured him that I wasn’t getting involved in his choices—just pointing out that Simchat Torah in New York is the second day of Yom Tov for those outside of Israel, so back then, as an Israeli, he was actually permitted to drive.  

I found a lemon and added it to my tea, which was far too strong. At that moment, the man in front of me pulled out $200 from his pocket, handed it to me, and said:  

"Listen, if you see a Chabad shliach there, give this to him as tzedakah."  

I promised him that the money would indeed reach a Chabad shliach—without telling him that I myself was one. But I was curious. "What’s the story behind this donation?"  

"Listen," he began, "my son became religious through Chabad in Holon. He is close to Rabbi David Gourarie. Ever since, he searches everywhere for kosher food and a place to be for Shabbat, and sometimes it’s not easy. But luckily, there’s always Chabad.  

For example, last year, there was a soccer match between the national team and FC Basel. He simply called the shliach there, and the guy invited him for Shabbat. He stayed for the meals, prayed with him, even brought chocolates for the shliach’s kids, and had an amazing time!"  

At that moment, I froze. My mind went blank. Shock. Total disbelief.  

"Wait a minute!" I nearly shouted. "Do you know who I am? Do you know my name? Where I live?"  

He had no idea.  

"Listen," I said, "I am the shliach in Basel. Your son was at my house! His name is Omer, right?"  

Now it was his turn to be stunned. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. He placed his hand on his head in total disbelief.  

At that moment, my heart filled with gratitude for this tiny pat on the back that G-d had just given me.  

Just think—how much did Hashem have to orchestrate behind the scenes? He had to turn the world upside down just so that I would fly from Israel to Newark, meet this man in the United Airlines galley, 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, at precisely the right moment, and hear a good word about Chabad of Basel—and even receive a donation!  

Most of what we do—all of us, in our own lives—we rarely see the results.  

Thousands of people have passed through Chabad of Basel over the years. I have no idea what impact, if any, it had on them. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t do it for the feedback.  

You do it because it’s the right thing to do.  

This applies to parenting as well. If we raise our children expecting constant feedback, we set ourselves up for disappointment, frustration, and emotional scars—mainly the ones we’ll inflict on our own children.  

We give. We educate. We nurture. We know that "It is not upon you to complete the work."  

But this time, G-d granted me a kindness. He gave me a glimpse of what one Jew felt after being at my home—how he felt accepted, loved, and welcomed.  

This week, for several reasons, I was reminded of this story.  

And I thought—it’s a beautiful story.  

Enjoy.  

Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski  

On my iPhone’s weather app, I have six locations saved—Basel, Switzerland; Limassol, Cyprus; Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania; Chicago, Illinois; Kiryat Gat, Israel; and Antwerp, Belgium. In each of these cities, one of our children currently lives. They don’t know this, but every morning, and sometimes in the evening, I open the app, check the weather in their cities, and think about them.

It fascinates me. Just last week, for example, in the middle of the night, it was minus 11 degrees Celsius in Chicago, while at the same moment, in Kiryat Gat, it was plus 17 degrees. I think about my children, living worlds apart, with a 28-degree difference between them. Sounds a little odd? Maybe. But perhaps this is my way of giving space to longing.

At the beginning of this week, I added another city to the list—Tyumen, Siberia. Tyumen is a region in western Siberia, covering an area more than ten times the size of Israel. And why did I add Tyumen? Because my wife and our youngest daughter traveled there.

And why would a woman and her daughter from Basel travel to Tyumen in times like these, when there are no direct flights from Europe to Russia, and the journey takes endless hours? Well, it’s actually quite simple: they traveled to attend the Bar Mitzvah of Note Gurelik, my wife’s nephew, the son of her brother, Rabbi Yerachmiel.

Did you know that last night, Wednesday evening, all the Jews of Tyumen gathered in a beautiful hall to celebrate the Bar Mitzvah of a Jewish boy born in Siberia? These are Jews who, for the most part, did not even know they were Jewish, or at least did not know what that truly meant. They also didn’t know that already back in 1951, the Lubavitcher Rebbe declared—to anyone willing to listen—that he would not give up on them.

They weren’t familiar with the words of Isaiah and his prophecy, but that didn’t stop the Rebbe from taking Isaiah’s words—
"And you shall be gathered one by one, O children of Israel"—
and turning them into reality. The Rebbe also emphasized that
"This gathering will be one of closeness and affection."

We are so caught up in life, with events constantly overwhelming us. Jews around the world, and especially in the Land of Israel, are experiencing moments that push the heart to its limits.

A funeral for ginger-haired children alongside their precious mother—a mother who, until her last breath, shielded them under her wings, her eyes filled with fear, terror, and the fierce determination of a lioness facing wild beasts. An entire nation that took to the streets to accompany them. A noble and rare father, standing there with a shy, embarrassed smile, unable to grasp the immense love pouring out from his people.

And at that very moment, in our family WhatsApp group, photos arrived—of Jews in the frozen Siberia celebrating the Bar Mitzvah of the beloved son of their Rabbi and Rebbetzin.

I don’t know why everything has to happen at once, but something about it connected me to the infinite nature of our Creator, to our eternal nation. It’s as if, at our core, we are forced to switch between realities, to juggle extreme contrasts, and somehow, to carry it all.

What I’m trying to say is this:
The Jewish people know how to rejoice, to dance, and to celebrate a Mitzvah with joy—and that is good.
The Jewish people also know how to mourn and to express boundless love in times of grief and pain—and that, too, is good.
And it is precisely this blend that makes us who we are.

At least, that’s how it seems to me.

This is probably the most disorganized post I have ever written. I read it again, and I see no clear beginning and no defined end—just words expressing emotion, everything blending together.

Chanan says the heart has two chambers.
Yishai insists it’s one heart, split in two.
And the Kotzker Rebbe said, "There is nothing more whole than a broken heart."

So maybe, after all, this post is complete?

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov, my friends. May everything be filled with joy.

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I remember the first time I faced something difficult that felt too big for me. There was an unbearable pain, paralyzing anxiety, and fear, and I was searching for the strength to get through it—not to change the situation itself, as it was beyond my control at that moment, but rather to escape the emotional and mental state of pain, fear, and anxiety.  

A little more honest introspection, and I discovered that hope counterbalances fear. The less hope there is, the stronger and more intense the feelings of pain and anxiety become.  

So, I was left with one big question: Here I am, alone with myself, facing challenges that feel far beyond my capacity. My mind is overwhelmed with negative thoughts, my heart is flooded with emotions—where do I find hope in this moment?  

I remember the moment I realized where I—speaking only for myself—draw hope from.  

I imagined my grandmother, Bobe Chaika Feldman, of blessed memory, when her infant daughter passed away as she and my grandfather, Zeide Avraham, fled from the Nazis, escaping from Belarus southward to Uzbekistan. A young woman whose entire world had collapsed—what did she tell herself in those moments to keep going for many more years?  

And when my grandfather, Zeide Moshe Wishedski, was told that his entire family had been murdered in Vitebsk in the Nazis' most creative and horrific ways, what did he say to himself in that moment to keep moving forward?  

Wait—don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t following the common tendency of seeking comfort by comparing my suffering to someone who endured worse. No. What I was searching for was their strength. I believed they had passed it down to me. I searched for their ability, in the most painful and paralyzing moments, to carve a small opening and allow a flicker of hope to enter. I sought their ability to let the faith within them push its way in and influence their consciousness.  

I knew them. They—like the rest of my family—were noble and special, yet entirely ordinary people. Simple Jews, just like you and me.  

And if they could do it, then so could I. If they succeeded, then I, too, would succeed.  

I imagined that they had sent me with a sealed treasure chest, filled with strength and hope, with power and joy, with deep breaths and a lifted head—a treasure that exists within me, though most of the time, I am unaware of its presence, and, thank G-d, I usually do not even need it. But now, the moment has come to recognize it, to open it, and allow everything inside to rise to my consciousness.  

This guided imagery helped me immensely.  

And when something helps me so much, I no longer care what the rational, reasonable, and often melancholic voices within me might say about it. I don’t care.  

I open the treasure chest, inhale deeply—drawing in much hope, strength, power, and joy—that allow faith to penetrate my soul and spirit. And slowly, the fear and the pain fade away, or at the very least, they diminish and balance themselves against the immense treasure I inherited and have now unlocked.  

Yesterday and today, I felt that I needed this—not only as an individual but as a member of our people.  

The news is heavy, the images are depressing, hope is taking a hit, and faith is being challenged.  

And this is precisely the moment to close our eyes and unlock the treasure.  

It works for me. Maybe it will work for you too?  

Try it at home.  

Am Yisrael Chai!

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Tu B’Shvat is Today, and I Have a Story About a Pomegranate Not about the pomegranate itself, but about a saying regarding the pomegranate. Here is the story, but first, an essential introduction: At the conclusion of Tractate Chagigah in the Babylonian Talmud, Rabbi Abahu said in the name of Rabbi Elazar: "The fire of Gehinnom does not rule over Torah scholars, for their very essence is fire." As it is written in Jeremiah: "Behold, My word is like fire, says the Lord," and Torah scholars are united with the Torah, which is the word of God. Therefore, they themselves are fire, and no other fire can rule over them. At that moment, Resh Lakish arose—a great defender in the Talmud of those who are neither Torah scholars nor necessarily righteous—and he sealed the tractate with a bold declaration: "The fire of Gehinnom does not rule over the sinners of Israel either!" Resh Lakish is perhaps the most famous penitent (Baal Teshuvah) in the Talmud. If not the most famous, he is certainly the one who made the most radical transformation. From being a leader of bandits—the “godfather” of Tzipori and its surroundings—he became, through a single encounter with Rabbi Yochanan, his brother-in-law, his study partner, and his lifelong debating companion across the Talmud. From one extreme to another, in a momentous decision. Perhaps this is why we find him again and again defending those who do not follow the conventional path—maybe because he understands them better than anyone. Perhaps this is why, in Tractate Sukkah, he describes the human struggle by saying: "A person’s evil inclination overpowers him every day and seeks to kill him." In Tractate Sotah, he defends all of us by asserting: "A person does not commit a sin unless a spirit of folly enters him." And above all, in Tractate Yoma, he leaves everyone with an immense beacon of hope, addressing all who have ever succumbed to their inclinations and been overtaken by that "spirit of folly," saying: "Do not despair, for repentance is so great that deliberate sins become merits." And when you see who is saying these words, you understand that he knows what he is talking about. And so, at the end of Tractate Chagigah, when his colleagues declare that the fire of Gehinnom does not rule over Torah scholars, Resh Lakish stands up to defend the broader community and says, "Wait, not just Torah scholars—even the sinners of Israel are not consumed by that fire!" Yes, the sinners of Israel—no less! He quotes a verse from the Song of Songs: "Your temples are like a slice of a pomegranate," and interprets it to mean: "Do not read 'temples' (רקתך) but 'empty ones' (ריקתך)—even the empty ones among you are full of mitzvot like a pomegranate!" And now, the story, as told by Rabbi Mordechai Menashe Laufer: One of the chassidim of the Satmar Rebbe, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum (1887–1979), who was childless, went with his wife to a private audience with the Lubavitcher Rebbe to seek a blessing for children. He had come at the directive of his own Rebbe, Rabbi Yoelish, who sent him to receive a blessing from the Lubavitcher Rebbe. At four in the morning, they entered the Rebbe’s room. The Rebbe inquired about their situation, advised them to consult a specific doctor, and warmly blessed them that they should merit children. (Indeed, they were later blessed with a house full of children.) The couple thanked the Rebbe and left the room. Suddenly, in an uncharacteristic move, the Rebbe followed them outside and asked: "I believe there is a yahrzeit in Satmar these days, and the Rebbe of Satmar customarily delivers a Torah discourse and completes a tractate. Would you be able to share what he spoke about on that occasion?" "Indeed," the chassid replied, "the Rebbe completed Tractate Chagigah and focused on the Talmudic statement: 'The fire does not rule over the sinners of Israel, for they are full of mitzvot like a pomegranate.' Among his remarks, the Satmar Rebbe expressed his astonishment: If they are categorized as 'sinners of Israel,' how can it be said that they are 'full of mitzvot like a pomegranate'?" The Rebbe's face turned pale. A slight tremor was visible on his holy face, to the extent that the Satmar chassid regretted even mentioning it. Then the Rebbe spoke: "I, too, have studied this Gemara in Chagigah, but my difficulty was precisely the opposite: If they are 'full of mitzvot like a pomegranate,' how can they possibly be called 'sinners of Israel'?" It’s all a matter of perspective. May we learn to look at others this way. May we learn to see our children this way. May we learn to see our spouses this way. May we learn to see ourselves this way. Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Dear Friends, When we first arrived in Switzerland two decades ago, we had one child, then two, and very quickly three. Local friends brought us second-hand clothes—clothes their children no longer needed. At first, we were deeply hurt. What? Why? Does everyone think we are poor? It took us some time to understand that this is simply an accepted practice here. People initially buy expensive, high-quality items, take good care of them, and there is no shame whatsoever in passing them on or receiving them as a gift from friends—it’s the norm. In fact, when we looked into it, we realized that the second-hand clothes we received were of higher quality and more expensive than the new ones we had considered buying. At a later stage, we noticed people putting good items outside their homes—like a chair, a vacuum cleaner, or even kitchenware—accompanied by a note saying"gratis zum Mitnehmen,"meaning "free to take." Ordinary, respectable people would stop in broad daylight, get off their bikes, examine the items without any embarrassment, and take what they needed. I still remember the first thing I ever took from the street—it was a high-quality and expensive toddler car seat, which I believe we used for twenty years. The peak of it all was when our eldest son turned three, and someone gave us a gift—a second-hand bicycle with training wheels—because their child had already moved on to a bigger one. When I checked, I realized that the price of that second-hand bicycle on the market was actually higher than the new one we had planned to buy. In my opinion, the vast majority of the cars on the streets around me are relatively old but very well maintained. Even today, there are quite a few second-hand furniture and clothing stores here. I see this as a positive thing—not rushing to throw something away when it can still be repaired, not buying just because something is on sale, and not spending money on things we don’t need simply because there’s a Sale. To me, this represents a form of impulse control and self-discipline—perhaps also a touch of Swiss meticulousness. Maybe this comes from the maturity of people who have lived in the same place for centuries. Perhaps it is a deep respect for raw materials, as is common in classic Europe. It could also be the natural humility and quiet confidence of people who feel no need for showiness and, in fact, almost have an aversion to it. Most likely, it’s a combination of all of the above. When we built the Chabad House in Basel, the friends who were with us urged us to seek out simple yet high-quality materials that would last for many years. Fifteen years later, it is quite clear: everything we bought that was of high quality has remained strong and beautiful, while wherever we compromised, it shows. We found the chairs for the Chabad House at a company specializing in this field. The chair we purchased is called"Kirchenstuhl"—a church chair—designed for people who sit on it for hours, read from a book, and listen to a cantor or a rabbi. Each chair cost €250 at the time, and for over a decade, not a single chair wobbled—until this past year, when some of them started collapsing under their users. Again, the dilemma arose: should we throw them away and buy cheap new ones, or invest in a carpenter who would build wooden reinforcements and repair each chair? The local mindset—and probably also my upbringing—played its role, and the carpenter was invited. Last June, he came, examined the chairs, and devised a plan. A month later, he returned to present me with various options. His eyes sparkled with excitement: "I worked on this outside my regular hours,“ he said. "There is a joy and thrill in encountering fine raw material that requires a solution, a repair, and reinforcement." This week, he arrived with the wooden supports he had built in his workshop and repaired each chair individually. The cost? €45 per chair. But in my eyes, it was undoubtedly the right thing to do. I have no direct way to connect this to the weekly Torah portion, but certainly to life in general. Everything—not only material things, but certainly also those—everything we invest in is worth doing in a way that takes more time, costs more, and ensures better quality. And when something starts to wobble—whether in marriage, parenting, livelihood, or even just a chair or a table—it is worth seeking out a professional with a sparkle in their eyes, someone who can build the right kind of support so that it lasts for many more years to come. One more thing: Every week, I try to write about things that have touched me over the past days—things I have experienced. This post, though, is not only about my perspective this week, but also a request and an invitation to take part in restoring the chairs. €45 per chair. Here is the link for credit card payments, PayPal, or bank transfers: https://www.chabadbasel.com/templates/articlecco_cdo/aid/4195815/jewish/Donate-Tzedaka.htm May we have much success, and Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

My phone rang last week, without any prior notice, without a preliminary WhatsApp message—just a phone call, like in the old days. I replied that I couldn't talk at the moment. A message followed, asking when I could. I asked, "How urgent is it?" The reply came: "Quite urgent." I cleared some other tasks and immediately called back the unfamiliar number. "My name is Michael," said the man on the line, speaking German with a Slavic accent. "My wife and I are both Jewish, and we want to 'return to Teshuvah' [repentance]." When he said the words "return to Teshuvah," he said them in Hebrew, with the same Slavic accent, just slightly heavier. "We were born Jewish, and now, at a little over forty years old, with the kids growing up, livelihood stable, and life calm, we've suddenly realized that we know nothing about who we are. You understand now, 'Herr Rabbiner,' why this is urgent, right?" We met earlier this week. They both came. My heart melted to see them come like this, asking in the simplest way possible—in the most "simple Jewish of the Baal Shem Tov" way—"We want to return to Teshuvah." I think, more than anything, I felt a pang of jealousy. We set up a schedule and a work plan. I asked them to carefully consider each step. They borrowed tefillin, a tallit, a siddur, a Kitzur Shulchan Aruch, and two enlightening books on family purity. I also gave them links to relevant YouTube channels. After they left, I was lost in thought, with a mixture of pain and delight swirling in my heart from the emotions they stirred in me. I, too, want to return to Teshuvah. The Alter Rebbe, whose yahrzeit is today, the 24th of Tevet, devoted himself to this—to making Baalei Teshuvah. In my view, studying the Chassidut of the author of the Tanya, as well as that of his successors, shows me every morning that there’s always a place to return to, that I haven’t returned enough, and that there’s still a journey ahead to fully become who I am meant to be. My soul still cries out: "Return, Zalman, return." On Shabbat Parshat Va'eira, in 5718 (1958), the Rebbe quoted a talk from Rabbi Shalom DovBer Schneersohn (the Rebbe Rashab) about the 24th of Tevet. He related the well-known dream of Rabbi DovBer, the son of the Alter Rebbe (the Mitteler Rebbe). Here are the words as they appear in *Torat Menachem*, volume 21, page 323: "The content of the Mitteler Rebbe’s dream: A wooden plank lay across a river, and the Maggid [of Mezritch] crossed from one side to the other on the plank, swaying as he went. Afterward, his father, the Alter Rebbe, crossed on the plank and didn’t sway at all. When the Mitteler Rebbe told the Alter Rebbe about the dream, the Alter Rebbe said to him: Why are you surprised? The Rebbe [the Maggid] made tzaddikim, while I, thank G-d, have made many Baalei Teshuvah as well." Moreover, there’s an inscription on the gravestone of every Chabad Rebbe. To my understanding, it’s the only sentence that describes their work in this world: the three words, "And he turned many away from sin“. The Alter Rebbe arranged it so that anyone who encounters him or his teachings immediately understands that they must become a Baal Teshuvah. Then Michael came with his insistent phone call, saying he urgently needed to speak with me. It turns out that returning to Teshuvah is indeed urgent. Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

"I have a database of approximately 240 Jews, almost all of whom agree to stay in touch with me." This is how the message of one of the remarkable members of our group began, one of the 170 members of the ‚Shluchim hebrew' group of Hebrew-speaking Chabad emissaries in Europe. His name is Rabbi Nisan Rupo, and he is the Rebbe's emissary in a remote city in Russia, Kostroma—a city that once served as the place of exile for Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, also known as the Rebbe Rayatz of Lubavitch. Today, the city is home to a community that Rabbi Rupo manages with exceptional dedication and genuine humility. He showed us a collage of over 200 photos of families lighting Chanukah candles in their homes. When we asked how this was achieved, he gave the following response. I didn’t touch Nisan’s text; his words touched me. Here is the continuation, in his own words: "For twenty years, I’ve been doing home visits during Chanukah, lighting candles. Some have already grown accustomed to this practice, while others learned about it in classes. On the first night, we held a large event where a significant portion of the community participated. We distributed kits there and asked people to light the candles, take a photo, and send it to us. We also distribute humanitarian aid packages, and we included a menorah with candles in each package. Every evening, except for Shabbat eve, I go out on mivtzoim (outreach activities), visiting homes and lighting candles with them. This year, I took my children with me. Thanks to this, some families agreed to let us come and light candles. I do this from nightfall until relatively late at night, managing to visit a few homes each day. Yesterday, I reached someone who lives dozens of kilometers from the city. Initially, he didn’t want to hear about Chanukah, but when I mentioned that my children were with me, he agreed. During our drive, he called to say that they were invited to someone’s house. I told him I was already nearby, so his whole family went to the gathering while he stayed home to wait for me. After I returned home at midnight, another person responded to a message. So, around midnight, I went out to another home. I, too, became closer to Judaism thanks to these outreach efforts, so it touches my heart. It’s imprinted in my childhood memories." By this point, Nisan didn’t know that I was already teary-eyed from emotion. I quietly waited to read more. Here it is: "In the summer of 1991, I attended a camp for non-Jews, where even mentioning the word 'Jew' was the greatest embarrassment. When I received a letter from my father, with the sender's name, 'Eidelshtein,' clearly marking it as a Jewish surname, someone noticed it. I didn’t know where to hide myself. By the summer of 1992, I arrived at a Jewish camp—Gan Israel Chabad camp in Moscow. On the first day, they gave me tzitzit, and I wore them. On the second day, everyone went to put on tefillin, so I joined them. On the third day, a mohel arrived, and I underwent a brit milah. During Sukkot, I was at 'Marina Roscha,' Rabbi Lazar’s synagogue. I saw yeshiva students preparing to go out for lulav outreach on the city streets. I asked how they would recognize who was Jewish. They said by their nose. I thought they were joking. They invited me to join them. I went with them, and at that time, Moscow’s streets still had a relatively high percentage of Jews. Many could even be recognized by their faces. (Until 1985, according to the census, most Jews in Moscow married other Jews.) Then, the students would actually approach people in the street. Some admitted they were Jewish and agreed to shake the lulav right there in the street. I remembered the shame I had experienced a year earlier, and now I saw the 'majesty of Jacob' and told myself, 'This is what I love.' The next day, I stood myself with a lulav on Moscow's main street, asking people if they were Jewish. I was a very shy 14-year-old boy. After that, I went to yeshiva, and during Chanukah, we went out every day to light candles with Jews in central Moscow (in a mitzvah tank). Since then, I’ve loved it very much." Rabbi Nisan, I salute you. Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

On January 17, 1994, at 4:31 AM, a devastating earthquake struck Los Angeles. Dozens were killed, many were injured, fires broke out, roads were torn apart, and in virtually every home, items fell from shelves, and glassware shattered. At that time, in a synagogue on Pico Boulevard, a yeshiva student was sitting and studying Talmud. During those long seconds of the earthquake, the entire synagogue was shaken—books fell to the floor, and cabinets collapsed. The student closed his Talmud but did not flee to save his life. Instead, he began picking up book after book, kissing each one and placing it back in its place. He continued doing this for nearly three long hours. At 7:30 AM, the brave members of the minyan arrived, having made their way from home to the synagogue. When they entered, they witnessed a “miracle”! Across the city, everything was scattered on the ground, but in their synagogue, everything was in place. Not a single book had fallen, and not a single glass was broken. A miracle! Simply a miracle! (I heard this story from the late Rabbi Yehoshua Gordon, of blessed memory.) While the congregants were marveling at the miracle that had occurred in their synagogue, the student sat quietly to the side and decided not to tell them what he had done. He chose not to take away their miracle. When I heard this story, I thought that he couldn’t really take away their miracle—because they indeed experienced a miracle. A miracle that he made. A human-made miracle. Chanukah is a holiday of miracles. „Nes Gadol Haya Sham," is written on the dreidels. We pray the “Al Hanissim” prayer, thanking G-d "for Your miracles and for Your wonders." But perhaps, sometimes, it’s worth remembering that young man from Pico Boulevard and recalling that we, too, can do things that will be miracles for others. We can create miracles for others, and with G-d’s help, in the next round, someone will create a miracle for us. I am not speaking of holy individuals whose blessings and prayers bring about miracles. I cannot fathom their greatness. I am speaking of people, women, and children—just like you and me—ordinary folks who do what is necessary, even when it is hard and challenging. Those who rise despite injury, trauma, scratches, and difficulties. Those who get up in the morning, shake their heads, and keep moving forward. Perhaps not with full strength, but they continue onward. I am also speaking of those who made plans that collapsed, yet they keep going. Of those who started a business, invested in it, and it hasn’t taken off, yet they persist. To all those hoping for a small miracle to brighten their day—may they know that they have the power to create a miracle for others, and with G-d’s help, they too will find someone to create a miracle for them. Shabbat Shalom and a bright, happy Chanukah, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I sat across from a professional in the field of coaching, a seasoned expert in various types of coaching. In recent years, he has been offering courses and regular sessions for religious and ultra-Orthodox individuals, primarily older yeshiva students. During our conversation, he shared that one of the challenges requiring significant investment on his part is dealing with the fear prevalent among religious and ultra-Orthodox individuals, particularly yeshiva students. Fear of punishment, fear of a punitive God, fear of hell. Perhaps we would refer to it as "awe"? But for him, it manifests as a mix between fear and anxiety, which strongly drives and even governs the people he encounters.

He has a planned session with Chabad yeshiva students, and during our meeting, he half-jokingly asked me, "What is your fear? How does the anxiety of Chabadniks manifest?"  

I paused for a moment to look inward, to examine myself. I also reflected on the many encounters I’ve had and continue to have daily with Chabadniks who come to me for coaching, and the answer became quite clear to me. I cannot say what the spiritual fears of others might be, but I can state almost with certainty that the spiritual fear of Chabadniks is not of punishment, nor of hell—which I have never even heard mentioned during my nine years in Chabad yeshivas. The fear I know, from myself and from my Chabad peers, is the fear of insincerity. The fear of being false. There is a genuine anxiety about not being authentic. (I'm not suggesting this is unique to Chabadniks; I haven’t conducted any research.)  

Externally, through the publications we excel—sometimes excessively—at producing, it might look different. But I am speaking about the inner world, the one I encounter on Zoom. There, people bare their hearts, and you see how deeply it affects them when they detect even a hint of falsehood within themselves. Just this week, a Chabad emissary confided in me: "I need to lead a farbrengen on Yud-Tes Kislev. How can I sit there and speak when I myself am unworthy of being called a Chassid?" He *is* worthy; it’s just that he feels otherwise, which is why we meet.  

And the ultimate question they ask themselves is always: How can I come before the Rebbe like this, as I am?

Perhaps this reflects one of the most powerful contributions of the Alter Rebbe, whose day of redemption we celebrate today—Yud-Tes Kislev, the Rosh Hashana of Chassidus.  

Perhaps it’s the foundation of the term *Tamim* (sincere one), coined by the Rebbe Rashab to describe Chabad yeshiva students.  

But don’t think this is a simple process. Genuine self-examination is neither easy, nor pleasant, nor free of pain.  

The Alter Rebbe, in my view, calls upon us to know the truth—our own truth—but not just the negative aspects, not just our deficiencies. He asks us to recognize the entirety of our truth, including our virtues.  

Perhaps, as it says in the *Hayom Yom* of 26th MarCheshvan: "The true path is to know one’s essence, with a genuine recognition of both one’s deficiencies and one’s virtues."  

Gut Yom Tov, 

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski  

Shem Hachiluf and Shem Hama’alah

Sefer Hama’amarim (Book of Essays), written by Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn in Yiddish (there is a translation as well), is a wonderful book with easily understood Chassidic sayings. In it, it is mentioned that there is a difference between the two times in the Torah when it says, “Your name shall no longer be…” Once, it is in connection to Avraham Avinu, when a heh was added to his name – “Your name shall no longer be called Avram, but your name shall be Avraham.” The second time is in Parashat Vayishlach in connection to Yaakov Avinu, when he received the name Yisrael: "God said to him, Your name is Jacob. Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel shall be your name. And He named him Israel“. 

When it comes to Avraham, from the moment his name was changed, he was no longer referred to by his former name, Avram; whereas in the case of Yaakov, the Torah continues to call him by both names – sometimes Yaakov and sometimes Yisrael. 

In Sefer Hama’amarim, the Rebbe teaches us that Avraham is a “changed name” – Shem Chiluf. In other words, it completely replaces the former name. But the name Yisrael is Shem Hama’alah, meaning, it is a step up from the former name, but does not replace it. 

The difference between them is as mentioned in the Gemara in masechet Nedarim (32b): Avram in Gematriya is 243, symbolizing the fact that in his service of Hashem he had reached the level of controlling 243 out of his 248 limbs, and then Hashem added the letter heh, which expresses his achieving control over five more limbs that are especially hard to control, such as eyes and ears. Since then, he becomes Avraham = 248. 

In contrast to that, the name Yisrael is coming to express another way of serving Hashem – indeed, loftier and different, but an additional way, and not coming to take the place of the previous way. The name Yaakov symbolizes the service of a slave, as it says, “And now, hear Yaakov, my slave.” A slave does anything his master tells him to do, but not always with feelings of love and heart-penetrating joy. The name Yisrael symbolizes the service of a son, as it says, “My son, my firstborn, Yisrael.” A son serves his father with love and inner joy. 

That’s what it says in parashat Balak: “How good are your tents, Yaakov, your dwelling-places, Yisrael.” The service of a slave, Yaakov, is practical and important, but external; it doesn’t penetrate. Therefore, it is like a tent, an external cover. The name Yisrael, on the other hand, represents the service of a son. It is an internal service that arises from the heart of the person. Therefore, it is like a dwelling place – it dwells in the innermost parts of his heart and soul. 

The service of a son is indeed loftier than that of a slave, but both of them are necessary. Sometimes we wake up in the morning full of joy and excitement connected to the feeling of holiness and mitzvot, and we do our work with heartfelt enthusiasm, like a son who serves his beloved father. But there are times when we get up feeling weakened and lacking desire to serve, and yet, we still get up and do what has to be done, even if it is without much joy and enthusiasm – like a slave serving a master. 

Therefore, on the Yamim Noraim (High Holy Days), we beseech Hashem: “If like sons, if like slaves. If like sons, have mercy on us like a father has mercy on his sons. And if like slaves, our eyes turn to you that you should favor us.”

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

G-d always loves me! Does He always love my actions?

G-d always loves me! But is He always pleased with me?

Wait, don’t get me wrong—I love this song very much. What’s amazing about it is that it flows into my heart and onto my lips even before I consciously think about what I’m saying. It just flows naturally, energizing and uplifting, filling my heart with joy and warmth without even waiting in line at the entrance.

But still, we are in the month of Kislev, the month of Chassidut in general and Chabad in particular, and Chabad demands inner depth.

Anyone who encounters the Alter Rebbe, whether in the Tanya, in his discourses, or even just through stories and sayings, will immediately see that there is no “free hug” there, no mere love—it’s mainly about a great deal of demand. Chabad Chassidut requires anyone who comes into contact with its teachings to engage in inner work.

Moreover, the Tanya, being a book for beinonim (intermediates), explains to a person that they have an animal soul and an evil inclination. They must recognize this and not ignore it. Otherwise, there can be no true work. And this work must come from one’s own effort.

It’s not just the Alter Rebbe; all Chabad Rebbes, up to and including our Rebbe, emphasized this. Immediately after accepting the leadership of Chabad on the 10th of Shevat, 5711 (1951), the Rebbe told the Chassidim:
“Listen up, Jews! In general, Chabad has always demanded that every individual do the work themselves, without relying on the Rebbe. This is the difference between the Polish approach and the Chabad approach. The Polish approach follows the verse ‘And the righteous shall live by his faith’ (tzaddik b’emunato yichyeh). Do not read it as yichyeh (will live) but as yechayeh (will give life). But we in Chabad must all work on our own—with all 248 limbs and 365 sinews of the body and soul.
‘Everything is in the hands of Heaven except for the fear of Heaven.’ I do not absolve myself, Heaven forbid, from helping, to the best of my ability. But since everything is in the hands of Heaven except for the fear of Heaven, if the work is not done individually, what good will it do to give ‘writings,’ sing melodies, or say l’chaim?
We must transform the folly of the other side and the fiery passion of the animal soul—into holiness.”

Does G-d always love me? Certainly, of course.
Does He always love my actions? No, absolutely not. He certainly expects me to improve my deeds.
Does this affect G-d’s love for us? Heaven forbid. As the verse says, “I have loved you, says the L-rd.”

My dear children, some of whom may read these words, know that I love them infinitely and unconditionally. Love is unconditional. Do I love everything they choose to do? The answer is no, and they know that too.

Rabbi Yossi Paltiel, whom I can call my teacher and mentor even though I’m not sure I’ve ever met him in person, said in one of his online classes (and I recommend anyone who understands English and wants to learn Chassidus to visit InsideChassidus) that in his opinion, just as the Alter Rebbe wrote a “book for beinonim,” Rebbe Nachman wrote a book for tzaddikim (righteous individuals). In other words, with the Baal Shem Tov and his great-grandson, Rebbe Nachman, there’s much faith and love and less demand. Everyone is a tzaddik just as they are. It’s no coincidence that people greet each other with, “How are you, tzaddik?” or “What’s up, my brother tzaddik?” These are not just figures of speech; it’s a pathway in divine service.

As the Rebbe stated above, Polish Chassidut largely told the Chassid to connect to the tzaddik, and the tzaddik would take care of them. But in Chabad Chassidut, we are told, as the Rebbe emphasized immediately upon becoming Rebbe: “I am here and will help, but the work is yours.”

Both approaches are the words of the living G-d; the Torah and its service have seventy faces. The Alter Rebbe does not send you to isolate yourself in a forest and speak to your Father in Heaven openly and intimately. That’s beautiful and amazing, but the Alter Rebbe wants you to reflect inwardly, to recognize what’s within—the good and the bad. He sends you to confront it, and then, step by step, descend for the purpose of ascent, to elevate and feel, and ultimately, to reach a point of truth.

After a Tanya lesson, it’s not so easy to break out into a joyful dance. When the lesson delves into the struggles of the beinoni and the wicked person, into the “intermediate shell” and the “three impure shells,” and into the depths of forbidden thoughts and actions, spontaneous dancing does not come naturally. What feels more appropriate might be a meditative tune, or even a sense of bitterness, introspection rather than exuberance.

And yet, with a bit of reflection, we arrive at one clear realization: G-d always loves me. Shall we dance?

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Last Friday night, after the Shabbat meal, my wife and I walked to the University Hospital in Basel. As we climbed the stairs to the second floor, we encountered a young man rushing by. Without asking who we were, he simply said, “The birth went well, the mother and baby are fine—I’m the doctor.” It took us a moment to realize that he probably recognized us—or rather me, thanks to my beard, tzitzit, and kippah—as being related to the young couple who had just become parents. It took us another moment to grasp that Mousi had a son and a few moments more to realize that we were now a grandfather and grandmother— not to mention, a Zaidy and Bubby.

The first thought that crossed my mind was that no one had prepared me to be a grandfather.
But then I realized that no one had prepared me to be a father either.
And immediately, I recalled that no one had prepared me to be a husband.
It hit me like a ton of bricks: no one had prepared me to be at all.

I remembered a story I heard 26 years ago from Rabbi Shalom Ber Gourarie when I was a young student-shliach at the Chabad yeshiva in São Paulo, Brazil. Actually, it’s not even a story or an anecdote; it’s more of a sentiment he described. At a farbrengen in Montreal, chassidim sat for a long time waiting to hear words of wisdom from the chassid Reb Heshel Zeitlin, of blessed memory. They waited not because he was a professional orator, nor because he was known for captivating stories or exceptional charisma. They waited because he was a pnimi, an inwardly focused and sincere chassid. And when you encounter such a person, you wait to hear what they have to say.

Reb Heshel sat, sipped some vodka, said l’chaim, sampled some herring and pickles, sipped l’chaim again, and then finally said in English with a Russian-Yiddish accent: “A man got to do what a man got to do.” Then his head dropped into the plate of pickles, as if to say, “Who am I to tell you what to do?”

I heard this story dozens of times. I never truly understood it. What was he trying to say? Why did he say it? What does it even mean? What is this thing a man has to do?

Last Friday night, as I sat in the maternity ward lobby, waiting for permission to visit my daughter and grandson, this story resurfaced in my mind. I think I suddenly understood it. I realized that I was prepared for all of this. My parents and teachers each, in their own way, had taught me that very message: “A man has to do what a man has to do.”

When the kids were little and the kitchen sometimes looked like the kitchen of a family with children, I would come home after a long day and try to tidy up a bit. It was a mess, and there wasn’t an empty corner in sight. The question was always: where do you start? My answer to myself was always: start with one spoon, then another spoon, then a plate, then a pot—and lo and behold, slowly but surely, the kitchen cleared up, and the space took shape. Spoon by spoon. I don’t know if this is what Reb Heshel Zeitlin had in mind, but to me, it certainly seemed to fit the definition of “a man has to do what a man has to do.”

And just like spoon by spoon in the kitchen, so too in life—in relationships, in parenting, and now, God willing, in this next stage. Sometimes there’s no need to overthink or complicate things. Simply put: a man got to do what a man got to do. Now, if only I could find a plate of pickles to rest my head on.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski