Rabbi's weekly Blog

Recently, I’ve been contemplating a lot about the concept of an abundance mindset.

In every good coaching lecture, they talk about it. In every podcast that deals with consciousness and the soul, the topic comes up.

“Live with an abundance mindset,” say the coaches and therapists.

If you live with an abundance mindset, abundance will come to you – and who doesn’t want abundance to come through their gates?

There are even those who promise to teach people how to live with an abundance mindset.

And I, who love mindsets and am fascinated by shifts in consciousness, I’m just trying to understand – what does “an abundance mindset” actually mean?

They told me, “Just think big.” But how can I think big if reality isn’t syncing up?

It reminded me of the story about the man whose late father came to him in a dream and told him he needs to become a Rebbe. The dream wouldn’t leave him alone until he went to his own Rebbe and said: “Rebbe, my father, of blessed memory, won’t let me be. He comes to me in a dream and demands that I become a Rebbe.”

The Rebbe said to him: “Next time your father comes to you in a dream, tell him that instead of coming to you, he should appear in a dream to 300 chassidim and tell them they should be your followers.”

They told me, “Fly business class, buy expensive things, stop calculating every little expense, think abundance.” But how does that align with being a responsible person who knows how to manage his steps wisely?

Actually, I love thinking abundantly, so I thought. Abundantly.

And then I understood something brilliant – an abundance mindset is the opposite of a scarcity mindset. If I understand scarcity mindset, I can understand what abundance mindset is.

So, I thought abundantly about scarcity mindset, and I understood.

Scarcity mindset has nothing to do with one’s actual financial situation. Scarcity mindset doesn’t depend on a bank account. It’s a fixed mindset that says: If I’m not lacking now, I’ll be lacking tomorrow, and if not tomorrow then the next day; in the end, there will be lack. One day it will all run out and may God help. And that’s frightening.

Scarcity mindset can exist even among people with great wealth – if it was ingrained in their hearts sometime in childhood, or perhaps they inherited it entirely, it doesn’t disappear easily. Deep down they are convinced that someday the checks will bounce and everything will collapse.

A person living with a scarcity mindset carries inner fear and anxiety – sometimes hidden, but always accompanying him.

An abundance mindset, then, is the awareness that God is infinite and desires to give abundantly. An abundance mindset is a person who lives with a solid inner faith that everything will be okay. He acts, and works, and plans, but all with a firm belief that things are already good and will become even better.

He doesn’t tell himself, “Yes-yes, no-no,” but rather, “Yes-yes, yes-yes.” And if he encounters a “no,” he smiles and says, “Okay, let’s check where and what didn’t work, and move forward toward the next ‘yes.’”

One who lives with an abundance mindset does not live in fear of the future. He lives with deep knowledge that there is abundance, and abundance will come to him.

I was reminded of this this morning when I studied the daily Chumash with Rashi on the verse, “And the Canaanite, king of Arad, who dwelt in the Negev, heard that Israel was coming by the southern route” (Numbers 21:1). 

On the words“by the southern route,” Rashi brings two interpretations:

1. The way of the Negev through which the spies went.

2. the southern route – referring to the great guide traveling ahead of them, which is essentially the Ark of the Covenant – God Himself leading the way.

I recalled a sicha in which the Rebbe explains that the path taken by the spies essentially symbolizes the calculated path of nature, while the path of the great guide symbolizes the path that is essentially walking with complete trust in God.

Is it possible that Rashi is referring here to scarcity mindset versus abundance mindset? That the path of the spies represents living with a scarcity mindset, and the path of the great guide represents living with an abundance mindset?

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Some thoughts—not necessarily connected:

This is my third decade living outside the Holy Land. That’s a long time.

It means that the last time I clearly remember experiencing a siren and shelter was in the winter of 1991, when Saddam Hussein showered us with Scud missiles. Even then, it was in a sealed room, not a bomb shelter.

It feels strange to experience all of this from afar.

On the one hand, we are connected to the Land by virtue of being Jews in general and Israeli citizens in particular. On the other hand, we live in peace and quiet.

On the one hand, we’re part of the family WhatsApp group where alerts and sirens are reported, with photos from safe rooms and shelters taken by our relatives. On the other hand, we often see these messages only in the morning, after a peaceful, uninterrupted night—not from a plastic chair in a shelter or even a mattress in a safe room, but from the comfort of a cozy bed at home.

On the one hand, I must admit—it’s much more comfortable to witness all this from Basel. On the other hand, my wife, at least, really misses being in Israel right now—not just being in Israel, but that sense of togetherness that happens in the shelters.

Many wars have passed over the Holy Land since we moved to Switzerland. This current one is the most “awe-some” of them all. Not in the fearful or terrifying sense of the word, but in its deeper, sacred sense—like in “Days of Awe,” or the “great, mighty, and awesome God.”

When I say "the current one," I mean the war that began on Simchat Torah 5784, and is now reaching its peak with Israel’s massive offensive against Ayatollah-led Iran.

It’s not just because Israel’s security situation is currently infinitely better than it was when I was a teenager. Back then, we were surrounded by seven heavily armed Arab armies bent on wiping us into the sea, Heaven forbid. Today, thank God, the only serious military around us is Egypt’s—and Jordan, for some reason, is barely counted anymore.

Back then, we feared Iraq, Iran, Syria, Lebanon—and honestly, also Arafat’s armed police and other murderers who were handed rifles. Today, thank God, most of those threats are gone or significantly weakened.

But it’s not because of all that that this war is “awe-some.” It is because of the sheer resilience and rising spirit of the Jewish People—as one lion rising against its enemies. It's about the shared destiny, the mutual support, the astounding spiritual awakening, the love, and the selfless giving for one another.

Chassidic teachings say that the Exodus from Egypt had to happen in haste - “chippazon” - and that this urgency was in the interest of everyone involved:

The Egyptians wanted the Jews gone already because they couldn’t bear the plagues any longer.

The Jews wanted to get out and be free.

And G-d Himself hurried them out—He jumped, skipped - Passach - , and rushed the redemption because He saw the Jewish people's own urgency, which in turn “awakened” Him to help and redeem them quickly.

This is how the Rebbe explained it in his discourse“Ve’kacha” 5737 (1977):

“All that happens Above is a result of what happens below. As the Maggid explains on the Mishnah ‘Know what is above you’—know that everything above comes from you. In the words of the Mishnah and the Talmud: ‘With the measure a person measures, they measure unto him.’ The same applies to chippazon - the urgency of the Shechinah (Divine Presence) depends on the urgency of Israel.”

In my own words: G-d responds according to our behavior. What happens Above, comes from you - down here.

I don’t know the ways of Heaven, but I truly believe that the way the people of Israel are treating one another - the incredible mobilization within the country, and even around the world - to help, to support wherever needed, alongside the tremendous spiritual awakening, all of this surely has an impact Above and brings about miracles and wonders of biblical proportions.

When we embrace each other - G-d joins in and embraces us, too.

To our brothers and sisters in the Holy Land - 

We, in the Diaspora, salute you with awe and deep admiration for your strength and resilience.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

One of the most impressive ba’alei teshuva (returnees to Judaism) in our history is the Talmudic sage, Reish Lakish.

There is, of course, Rabbi Akiva, mentioned so often for having made a huge change in his life – until age 40 he didn’t know how to read, and only then began his journey and became Rabbi Akiva. But Reish Lakish is a different story.

This was a person who grew up in a Torah-centered home, who knew about Torah and mitzvot, and yet became a highway robber; in fact, a notorious leader of highway robbers. That is, until he met Rabbi Yochanan who caused him to do teshuva, whereupon he became one of the greatest of Amora’im (Talmudic sages); the Gemara is full of his sayings.

Perhaps that is why he is the one who made one of the most meaningful and essential statements regarding the close connection between a Jew and his Creator – and maybe even more than that – a statement that redefines a human being’s essence: “Reish Lakish says, a person does not transgress unless a ruach shtut (which can be loosely translated as ‘momentary insanity’, or ‘spirit of folly’) enters him.”

When a person transgresses one of the mitzvot, chas veshalom, performing a forbidden action, naturally we tend to define him according to his deed. And not only we do so; he too defines himself according to his bad deed. But then Reish Lakish, who lived in all the worlds fully – from a chief of robbers to one of the foremost Talmudic sages – comes and says, “Stop. Your deed does not define you. You remain who you are. It’s just that a spirit of folly entered you and derailed you from the right path.”

And not only that: Reish Lakish brings proof for what he says from a passuk in this week’s parasha, parashat Naso. “Any man whose wife shall go astray”. From the fact that the Torah wrote the word tiste (“astray”) with a sin (shin) and not with a samech, Reish Lakish learned that we are talking here about a ruach shtut – also with a shin. This is a case of a woman who is suspected of not being faithful to her husband – which is not a small or light transgression; it’s a heavy transgression, a most significant wrongdoing, and it is from this pasuk that Reish Lakish learned that it is caused by a “spirit of folly”.

Perhaps Reish Lakish is teaching us that in order for us to repent and do teshuva we have to first remember not to define our essence according to a bad deed we have done. Because knowing that deep inside, in one’s essence, a Jew is still a good and pure person, hosting a holy soul – and though the actions may be dirty and bad, they are not the person himself, but something external, attached to him – grants one the hope and the power to get up and return to the source, to whom he really is, to what he really is: holy, pure and refined.

That is what Rabbi Yochanan said to him when he saw him when he was still a highway robber: “Your strength is suitable for Torah.” Instead of rebuking him, Rabbi Yochanan ignored the robber’s external aspects and said to him: I can see your essence; nothing has changed in your essence. Your essence is clean and pure, and suitable for Torah. And Reish Lakish pulled himself together and repented.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Once upon a time, before I switched to Apple’s Mac, I used to need a computer technician from time to time. A visit from the computer guy was always a source of some stress—he would sit for an hour and a half, installing and uninstalling software, speaking in a language full of "default settings," and in the end, he would often take the computer with him for a day or two.

I vividly remember one such time when I asked him to install Microsoft’s new operating system—Windows something-or-other. He, in turn, asked to erase my entire computer in order to do it. Sweating and nervous, I asked, “Why delete everything? Just install it on top of the current system.”

He looked at me with a condescending gaze and declared firmly: “It’s not possible! If you want to install a new operating system, you have to get rid of the old one!”

And suddenly, I understood—not only what he was saying technically—I also understood why G-d insisted on giving the Torah specifically in a barren, desolate desert. I understood because I remembered the Rebbe’s explanation: in order to receive the Torah, you must erase everything familiar and known. You have to approach Torah study like a blank, white sheet—without preconceived notions, without concepts inherited from home.

Why?

Because if you want to install a new operating system, you must first remove the old one. And the Torah is an operating system for our lives, maybe not the newest on the market, but definitely equipped with the strongest antivirus that exists.

The Rebbe explained that this is why Parshat Bamidbar is always read before Shavuot. Because the best preparation for receiving the Torah is to be like a desert—empty, clear, and ready to receive, just like the wilderness.

I thought: whenever a person reaches a point where they feel a real (and probably painful) need for change, they must be ready to erase their old operating system and install a new one. It’s scary to step out of the familiar into the new and unknown, but there really is no other way. Just like the technician told me back then:

“If you want to install a new operating system, you have to get rid of the old one.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

A Practical Tip for Lag BaOmer

a. Write down on a piece of paper what your ultimate life would look like. Describe in detail what your day would look like from morning to night if you were truly living your dream. Write down your Plan A — in every area. Spiritually: mitzvah observance and Torah study. Physically: your home, your car, your capacity for giving tzedakah. And of course, in your personal life: your ideal state of marriage, parenting, career, and the unique mission that God destined for you — and more. The more topics, the more detail, the better. Don’t be shy — no one else is reading this but you.

If you want to be someone who learns Daf Yomi but you’re not managing it at all right now, don’t write down “once a week.” Write “Daf Yomi.” Your personal maximum. If you want to be a woman who finds time to learn and grow but life feels too overwhelming, think for a moment about what you would most love to learn, how much, and how — and put that on paper. If you want more peace in your home, but deep down don’t want to settle for just “no conflict” and truly long for a deep and meaningful connection, write that. If your hope is that your relationship with your children isn’t just trouble-free, but at the highest, most respectful and loving level it could be — write that too. And yes, if you know your family needs a larger home, don’t write “a small extension” or “closing in the balcony.” Write down the real space you actually need.

b. Read over what you wrote. Then read it again — and now ask yourself: Is this really the maximum I could envision? Is this truly what I want my best day to look like within God's possibilities — or just within the limitations of my own imagination? Is this really the ultimate Plan A?

c. Now tear up the paper. And write it again — but this time, write your ultimate life based on God's abilities, not your own. A redemptive Plan A.

That’s it. No special segulah here. No need to light a candle before, during, or after. The goal is to train our mental and emotional “muscle” to first of all recognize what the *maximum* really is. What *ultimate* really means. To not be afraid to admit what life is *supposed* to look like. And second, to train our *emunah* — our belief that God is truly capable of *anything*.

And why write it on paper? Because we need to accustom ourselves to thinking in terms of *miracle*, not just *nature*. Because in the end, both miracles and nature are simply different ways God moves us from place to place. And if there’s an option of taking a fast and comfortable flight, why would we choose the exhausting drive?

Imagine you’re about to meet someone who can grant you all your dreams. Would you know what to ask for? Do you even know what your dreams are? You’d sit down and prepare, wouldn’t you? To figure out what you really need. Well, we meet God every day — whenever we want. We should at least know what to ask for.

And why now? Because somehow I have this feeling that Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai taught the world that living through miracles is almost natural. He made the miraculous feel normal. As my grandfather Zeide Avraham used to say: “Why rely on miracles when you can just say Tehillim?”

Jews know — when there’s a problem, when a miracle is needed — we go to Rabbi Shimon. I don’t think most people can explain why. I don’t think they need to. They’ll just say: “You need a miracle? Go to Rabbi Shimon.”

There are those who, when in need of healing, will consult and go to the best doctor. That’s responsible and according to Torah.

Then there are those who, in addition to the doctor, will give tzedakah, say Tehillim, pray, and ask for a blessing — for the doctor to succeed, for the surgery to go well.

But a Lag BaOmer Jew — after doing all that — will still go to Rabbi Shimon and ask that there be no need for healing at all. That the problem simply vanish.

Like the story with Rabbi Zalman Gurary, who once asked the Rebbe for a blessing that a surgery should go well. The Rebbe answered: “If you’re already asking for a heavenly blessing, ask that you shouldn’t need the surgery at all.”

In other words, if you’re asking — don’t ask based on the maximum *you* can imagine. Ask based on the maximum *God* is capable of.

I know — people are afraid of the disappointment if things don’t work out. That’s why they don’t write these things down to begin with. Maybe they fear the evil eye, who knows. For many, the survival instinct will quickly bring all the emotional “proof” that this is too risky, and how it contradicts values like being content with what you have, or appreciating the small things. If that’s where you are — then don’t write anything yet. No pressure. I don’t have the space here to unpack all that survival thinking right now.

Happy Lag BaOmer,

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I have a rule: I make a great effort not to write about things that I do not personally embody. Because if there is one thing that the Chassidic education managed to instill in me, it's this: not to speak about — and certainly not to demand or preach — something that I don’t myself live by.

Sometimes, I will write about a special behavior of someone else, one that is, in truth, also a goal and aspiration for me.

Rabbi Reuven Dunin, of blessed memory, was likely the Chabad chassid who influenced the most Jews in the Holy land over the years to draw closer to their souls and connect to their Source. I don’t know numbers, but by now we’re talking generations — for today there are children whose great-grandfather found his way to our Father in Heaven through “the house on Borochov 3 Street.”

Much has been spoken and written about Reuven and his path — a man in whom truth shone clearly and sharply; “for real,” as he would say in his distinct Israeli drawl. But there is one specific thing about him that especially struck me: Reuven was wholeheartedly and selflessly devoted to doing favors for others. He did it as if it were his full-time job — to the point that one might have thought that’s what he *actually* did for a living.

Of all the stories I’ve read about him, the one about the washing machine simply won’t leave me.

It turns out Reuven had a natural talent for mechanics. In his youth, he even worked repairing washing machines. An elderly Jew named Barry once said:

“For nearly forty years, Reuven would come help me whenever I had trouble with the washing machine. In recent years, it became hard for him to climb the stairs to my apartment because of his breathing issues. I remember once how he came to my home, panting, and said: ‘Give me a moment to catch my breath, and I’ll get to work right away.’”

How many rabbis or spiritual mentors do you know who come with a toolbox, catch their breath, bend down next to a washing machine, get wet, get dirty — and fix it?

In this week’s Torah portion, Acharei–Kedoshim, we read the famous verse: “And you shall love your fellow as yourself.”

On Shavuot 1958, the Rebbe shared that he had heard from his father-in-law, the Rebbe Rayatz, who had heard from Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev — who in turn had heard from the Baal Shem Tov:

“It says in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers): ‘Any Torah that is not accompanied by work will not endure.’

The Baal Shem Tov explained: this ‘work’ refers to involvement in Ahavat Yisrael — love for one’s fellow. For Torah to endure, it must be joined with this work: engaging in love for every Jew.”

This teaching deeply influenced the Berditchever, whose entire life became one long act of Ahavat Yisrael.

The Rebbe elaborates:

“Involvement means treating it like a business. A businessman doesn’t just sit at home with his merchandise waiting for someone to discover that he has goods of value and come buy them. He opens a shop in a busy area and puts up a sign so that all passersby know that goods are available. Even this isn’t enough — he advertises, praises the quality of his goods, and tries to persuade people to buy. He actively works to sell his merchandise.”

That’s how Ahavat Yisrael should be — a full-time occupation.

A physical act of kindness often affects a person just as much — and sometimes even more — than a spiritual one.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Just as I finished preparing this text, my talented son Natan sent another one of his drawings to the family group, as he does every few days. This time, it was a portrait of Reuven Dunin — Natan had no idea that he would be the subject of my words.

The fifteenth volume in the letter series of Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, the father-in-law of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, is a rich collection of moving and exceptional letters that he wrote in his capacity as the sixth Rebbe in the Chabad dynasty to his daughter and son-in-law—who, years later, would become the Rebbe and Rebbetzin of Lubavitch.

Personally, I have learned a great deal from these letters about the relationship between a father and his children. Highly recommended.

In a letter dated Tuesday, the 5th of Elul 5689 (1929), about eight months after their wedding, the Rebbe's father-in-law wrote to his son-in-law:

"Contemplate well the precious pearl that God has granted you—for long life and good years, and all good things, both materially and spiritually. And may the Blessed One grant you wisdom, understanding, and knowledge to comprehend the matter in its fullest truth."

A pearl is a precious gem. Apparently, the young groom—later to become the Rebbe—did not fully grasp what his father-in-law meant by this reference to the “precious pearl.”

Five months passed, and once again, the father-in-law wrote to his son-in-law, and again, at the end of his letter, he added:

"And regarding the good gift, the precious pearl—do you still not know my intention, or have you already deciphered my riddle?"

A month later, in the month of Shevat 5690 (1930), the son-in-law replied:

"As for the quality and nature of the good pearl—I have not yet understood its true meaning."

Another month passed, and on the 25th of Adar 5690—the birthday of his daughter Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka—the father-in-law finally solved the riddle for his son-in-law:

"The precious pearl that God has granted you is my daughter, your esteemed wife, may she live. (That was my intention in the letter—you simply did not read my words carefully enough.)"

So often, we fail to recognize the people around us as the precious pearls that they truly are.

In this week's Torah portion, Tazria–Metzora, we read:

"When you come to the land of Canaan, which I give you for a possession, and I will place a mark of leprosy in a house of your possession…"

Note the phrasing: "I will place"—as if it were a gift.

A leprous mark in the house—a gift?

Rashi adds a striking comment: “This is a good tiding for them—the marks will come upon them. For the Amorites hid treasures of gold in the walls of their homes during the forty years when the Israelites were in the wilderness, and by means of the plague, the house will be broken and the treasures will be found.”

When the Children of Israel first entered the Land, the treasures were material. Today, I believe, they are not only physical. In my humble opinion, there is an eternal and deeply relevant message here—especially for our times.

You may see a blemish, a plague, but I tell you—there is a message here, a treasure. Seek it. You might need to break something down in the process, but know this: there are hidden treasures waiting for you. Don’t miss them.

I often ask myself: if the Rebbe were to ask me about the pearl in my home—would I understand that he’s referring to someone in my own household?  

Even more so—now that I have read this letter—do I recognize that there are precious stones and pearls in my home?

And in those moments of challenge and struggle, when a family member pushes my buttons—and we all know that no one can challenge us more than those closest to us—will I remember in that very moment that this “challenger” is not a blemish but a treasure of gold?  

That this is not leprosy but rather a precious pearl?

There are definitely treasures here. There are pearls in our homes.  

I haven’t found them all yet—I’m still searching. And I hope I never stop searching.  

I just pray I won’t break too much in the process.

Wishing you success.  

Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

They say that once, someone asked Knesset Member Meir Porush, “Who is your rabbi? With whom do you consult when facing a dilemma or a crossroads? Litzman consults the Rebbe of Gur, Eichler with the Rebbe of Belz, Halpert with the Vizhnitzer Rebbe, Gafni with Rabbi Shteinman or Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky, Deri with Rabbi Ovadia. Who is your rabbi? With whom do you consult?”

They say Porush replied: “My rabbi is the Western Wall. For every question, I consult with the Weastern Wall.”

I have the impression that G-d is gradually leading the Jewish world toward a reality in which every person becomes increasingly independent. That every Jewish man and woman takes personal responsibility for their Judaism. And more broadly, that eventually everyone will, in one way or another, “consult” with their own version of the Wall—a source from which they draw strength, inspiration, power, confidence, peace of mind, and more—so they can make a decision, a decision they will ultimately make on their own.

Already back then, when Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai asked Vespasian Caesar, just before the destruction of the Temple, “Give me Yavne and its sages,” he essentially understood that the era in which there was one geographical center to serve G-d had, for the time being, passed—at least for the duration of the exile. And ever since that plea for “Yavne and its sages,” every person with a Talmud in hand can become a spiritual center for G-d. It’s less about “Yavne” and more about “its sages.” Every city can now be a Yavne if it has its sages.

Later on, there were periods when a city had just one community, and there was only one beit din (rabbinical court) per city. But gradually, things expanded: more communities, more groups, more customs, more traditions, and more prayer rites emerged. Today, nearly everywhere, there are several batei din, several prayer traditions, and multiple leaderships. My dear friend Rabbi Mendy Chitrik, the rabbi of the Ashkenazi community in Istanbul, once gave a lecture in our community and shared that in one of the important cities in Turkey, there was a single custom and rite until the Spanish Expulsion. When the exiles arrived, they immediately became the majority and prayed according to their own rites and customs.

Still, throughout the years, each community or group had one living leader who led it. In recent centuries, each circle had its “gadol”—its great rabbi—whom they lived with, consulted with, and listened to. But even that is gradually changing. In our times, there are hardly any individuals of that towering stature as there were not so long ago—not among Sephardim, not among Ashkenazim, not among Chassidim, and not among the non-Chassidic world. It seems that more and more, G-d is shifting the responsibility for Jewish life onto each individual.

When I was 14, the Rebbe gave a chilling talk. It was on the 28th of Nissan, 5751 (1991). Chabad Chassidim around the world were shaken. In the village where I grew up, there was a palpable sense of fear in the air during those days—and I’m not exaggerating. It came following a deeply powerful and even painful address about how Moshiach had not yet come. And then suddenly, the Rebbe said: “What more can I do… I don’t know. The only thing I can do is to hand it over to each of you. And do everything you can to bring Moshiach immediately.” At the end of that talk, the Rebbe crystallized his message in a sentence that every Chabad boy and girl can quote: “I have done all that I can; from now on, you must do all that you can.”

In hindsight, that was a moment in which the Rebbe transferred even more of his own responsibility as Rebbe to us, the Chassidim. Throughout the Rebbe’s leadership of Chabad Chassidim, he empowered and delegated authority and responsibility to his emissaries and followers. The early emissaries received detailed guidance. Those who went out in the 1980s relied more on what they heard from the earlier ones. And when they did ask the Rebbe how to act, the answer was often to consult with local Chabad leaders or rabbis, to seek advice from a mashpia. Eventually, every Chassid was expected to appoint for themselves a personal mashpia, what we call “aseh lecha rav”—a personal mentor. Until the 28th of Nissan, 5751, when the Rebbe suddenly said it all, publicly and clearly, on a weekday, and it was captured vividly on video.

In my personal conversations with my children, I tell them: Take responsibility for your Judaism. It’s yours. It’s not mine. It’s not your yeshiva rabbi’s. It’s not your seminary teacher’s. It’s yours.

That’s my message to everyone: Take responsibility for your Judaism. Only then will it truly be yours.

Tomorrow, the 28th of Nissan 5785, marks 34 years since that moment. For me, it’s a time to once again examine how much responsibility I take for Judaism—my own personal Judaism and that of my people. It’s also a time to ask whether I’m truly doing everything I can. And if I am—can I perhaps expand the boundaries of what I’m capable of, just a bit more?

Shabbat Shalom and a healthy summer,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

L’chaim – May We Be Like the Cow! 

This was sometimes the blessing given by the mashpia during a farbrengen.
And now, in all my Hutzpah, I offer this same blessing to you, my dear friends:
Be like the cow.

On various occasions, we read material, attend lectures, or even go to farbrengens to learn how to become better givers—how to be better parents to our children, how to support our partners in life, how to uplift those who work with us or for us. We seek and learn tools to influence in better, healthier ways.

But sometimes, we need to learn from the cow.
When a cow grazes in the pasture, chewing healthy grass—when she eats, she isn’t thinking about the milk she’s producing to give to others. She eats for herself, for her own health. And as a result, the milk comes forth naturally—and it’s good, healthy milk.

There are times when we too must pause and nourish ourselves—for our own sake.
Only then can we continue to be a source of strength, hope, faith, and security for those who are influenced by us.

The Feast of Moshiach is one of those moments.
This coming Sunday (in Israel it takes place on the upcoming Shabbat in the evening), the last day of Pesach, toward evening, is a uniquely auspicious time in the world—a time when the light of Moshiach shines. These are moments that can impact anyone who makes themselves a vessel for redemptive influence—personally, and from there, globally.

How does one make themselves a vessel? It’s quite simple:
Eat matzah. Drink four cups of wine—four cups of redemption.

This is a time to take a bit of wine, to set aside our usual assumptions, familiar paradigms, comfortable conventions, and common conceptions—and be willing to listen with curiosity and inner openness to a redemptive consciousness.
From experience I can tell you—it’s life changing.

And the impact on our surroundings? That will come naturally.
And it will be healthier, more authentic, and more effective.

L’chaim, fellow Jews! Moshiach Now!

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

 A few years ago, a man approached me, introducing himself as a Protestant Christian, and asked to meet with me. During our meeting, he told me the following:

"I got divorced a few months ago. I have a 10-year-old daughter who mostly lives with my ex-wife but also spends time with me. The problem is, I’m religious—and she is an atheist. I want my daughter to grow up believing in the Creator of the world, and her mother is completely opposed to that. It’s already caused a huge conflict between us."

"Can you advise me what to do? It’s really important to me that my daughter grows up to be a person of faith."

So I asked him: "Why did you come to me? I’m a Jewish rabbi, and you’re a Protestant Christian."

He replied: "A Jewish friend told me that for creative solutions, I should speak to a Chabad rabbi."

Honestly, he was right. And I didn’t even have to work very hard, because the Rebbe didn’t leave a single area of life without clear guidance on how to approach it.

I remembered the Rebbe’s long-standing campaign in America to introduce a concept called the *“Moment of Silence”* into public schools—a moment at the beginning of the day where children pause for 60 seconds to reflect on the world, its Creator, and its purpose. The Rebbe explained that this *Moment of Silence* would have a positive impact on the moral, spiritual, and ethical well-being of the youth—and by extension, the world.

I suggested to the confused father that he explain to the mother and daughter that he wasn’t asking them to *do* anything—not even to speak. Just to *be silent*—and only for 60 seconds each morning. To be silent and think about the trees and flowers, the water and the sky; to connect with their surroundings and silently give thanks for the beautiful nature around us.

This requires a bit of "divide and conquer." One must learn to pause and separate for a moment from what we perceive as bad, difficult, or painful—and instead look at the good. Because there’s always good, and it’s a shame to ignore it. When a person truly observes the beauty and goodness, they naturally say "thank you."

In this week's Torah portion, *Parshat Vayikra*, we learn about sacrifices. One of the most unique was the **Tamid offering**—the sacrifice brought at the beginning of every single day. Because the day should begin with gratitude. The phrase we say in the morning—*“Modeh Ani Lefanecha, Melech Chai V’kayam”* (“I give thanks before You, Living and Eternal King”)—is deeply meaningful and essential. The more deeply we live in a mindset of gratitude, the better our day will look—both for us and for those around us. Gratitude brings with it humility, modesty, faith, and a willingness to give of ourselves.

That is each person’s personal daily Tamid offering.

Try it at home.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

It always amazes and fascinates me to see how people find within themselves—and bring out—strengths precisely during times of darkness and pain.

The most incredible and moving example, of course, is our hostages—each and every one of them, in their own way, found extraordinary human strength and resilience in the tunnels of Gaza. One kept kosher and observed Shabbat, another shared a piece of pita she found with her companions despite intense hunger, one made Kiddush there, and another sang “Shalom Aleichem” in Arabic. They all speak of human bravery and mutual care, and though they emerge physically thin, broken, and wounded, their spirits are powerful, full, and whole—astonishing all of us.

What’s most amazing is that they are all regular people—normal individuals, people just like you and me. It’s just that the abnormal situation they were placed in drew out of them extraordinary strength that leaves us in awe.

It’s often said that from darkness comes light—the advantage of light that comes from darkness. And I recognize that in myself as well. Specifically in moments of real challenge, in places of darkness—that’s where I found peace and acceptance within myself, calm and confidence in the righteousness of the path.

In fact, in this week’s Torah portion—Parashat Pekudei, which concludes the Book of Exodus—there’s a verse at the end that speaks about this. It says, “And when the cloud lifted from above the Tabernacle, the children of Israel would embark on all their journeys.” The Rebbe sees here a fundamental message: the journeys of the Jewish people—“all their journeys”—begin not when the cloud of the Divine Presence rests among them, bringing Divine revelation, light, goodness, and warmth, but rather “when the cloud lifted”—when it gets a bit dark, confusing, unclear, and difficult—that’s when the journey begins.

I try to understand—what is it about darkness, difficulty, and moments when a person is backed into a corner that causes them to bring forth something they didn’t even know they had, something those around them never imagined they were capable of?

I’m not certain, but I suspect that at least one major factor is the disappearance of the inner voices that distract a person from connecting to their core purpose.

Most people carry diminishing inner voices—each in their own area of life. “You won’t succeed,” “They’ll surely say no,” “They won’t want you,” “They won’t like you,” “They’ll laugh at you,” “They’ll think you’re fat or ugly.” And there are also the voices of so-called ‘morality and righteousness’—like, “It’s not nice to say that,” “It’s not appropriate to do this,” “How will it look to others,” and so on. These voices are responsible for a large part of the obstacles that hold a person back from advancing toward their goal or destination.

But when a person is in a survival situation and sees only one path forward, there’s no room for these voices—they simply don’t show up. It’s a moment of “to be or not to be,” and the person chooses to be, and moves forward. There may be dilemmas, but once resolved, the head lifts and one marches on with dignity. Embarrassment or “what will they say” hardly matters in such moments.

The lingering question is: How can we be clear, sharp, and focused even when we’re not, thank God, in survival mode?
How can we silence those inner diminishing voices even when everything is okay, regular, and normal?

Do you think this text could also serve as a preparation for Passover, the Festival of Freedom?
Because at least for me, every time I manage to overcome those inner voices, I become a free person—a man who is free and liberated.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

 A few years ago, I parked my car overnight on a distant street that I wasn’t familiar with. It was late at night, and I didn’t expect to find parking easily. But lo and behold, I found a spacious spot—right under a lush tree.

Early the next morning, I walked toward my car, but alas, I could barely recognize it. It turned out that a flock of pigeons had "upholstered" my car throughout the night. I’m not overly sensitive, and I don’t tend to exaggerate, but believe me when I say—the car was upholstered. I had to use a thick tree branch to open the driver’s door without touching the "upholstery" on the handle. I almost emptied my entire supply of alcohol-based window cleaner just to restore visibility. It then became clear to me why this parking spot had been available so late at night—apparently, the locals knew better than to park there.

At first, I was filled with frustration. My days are incredibly busy, and I wondered how I could possibly drive around in such a car. A smudge or a stain is one thing, but this was a full-on coating.

But then, as I drove into the car wash that afternoon, I suddenly understood everything. There are people who remember to take their car for a wash from time to time, and then there are people like me—who ignore all the hints and reminders until there is no choice but to be forced into it. And that childlike joy I always feel when entering the automatic car wash, this time, it was elevated into a deep sense of appreciation for the lesson I had just learned. For a brief moment, I was even grateful to those "upholstering" pigeons.

I reflected on this incident for a long time. The more I looked at my own life and the lives of those around me, the more I realized how often we fail to move forward—how many times we avoid checking what needs cleaning, and how rarely we enter a "cleaning facility" until we are absolutely forced to. Until someone or something comes along and "upholsters" us into action.

And yet, every single time it has happened to me, I have indeed moved forward. As if against my will, I found myself stepping toward a better place.

So if someone has "upholstered" you, try considering that perhaps it was the only way the Master of the Universe could get you to move.

Pesach is approaching—it’s time to clean, even if we haven’t reached the breaking point yet. We don’t have to wait until we’re completely overwhelmed before asking for help.

Much success and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

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