Rabbi's weekly Blog

Today's article is rather heavy, perhaps mainly for the more advanced, but what can we do? Tomorrow is the 18th of Elul, the birthday of the Baal Shem Tov, the Alter Rebbe, and the beginning of studies at the Tomchei Tmimim Yeshiva in Lubavitch, so there's no choice. 

If you still decide to continue reading, here's my advice: prepare yourself a "kelechke," which in Yiddish means a "glezelle," which in Hebrew means a small glass. Put something a bit sharp in it, and let's get started.

There's a well-known and quite dramatic story – both awe-inspiring and sacred – told by the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe (the Rayatz). It's a story that, on the surface, is hard to digest, but if we delve into it a bit, in my humble opinion, it holds something of the novelty of Chassidus in general and specifically Chabad Chassidus, as it was given to us by the Alter Rebbe, the author of the Tanya, especially in the Tanya itself.

The story is about a chassid who was a wealthy man and gave a lot of charity, but fortune turned against him, and he lost all his wealth and even became indebted. He came to the Rebbe (the Alter Rebbe) and poured out his heart with much weeping and inner anguish, saying: "If the Holy One, blessed be He, has afflicted me and, Heaven forbid, decreed poverty upon me, I accept the judgment. But how is it possible that I should remain, Heaven forbid, in debt and not repay or not fulfill the promises I made to my relatives and family, including the matter of my daughters’ marriages? After all, I promised them when I was wealthy, which according to our holy Torah, I had the right to do. If I do not fulfill my promises now, it will be a desecration of G-d‘s name."

And he wept bitterly... concluding his words: "Rebbe, I must repay all my debts; I must give to all my relatives and family what I promised them, and I must provide for my two daughters what I promised them."

Now, try to imagine the following scene:

"The great Rebbe leaned on his holy arms in deep concentration, listening to his pleas and tears. After some time, the Rebbe raised his holy head and said with intense devotion: 'You are telling me everything you need, but what you are needed for, you do not mention at all.'"

When the chassid heard these words from the great Rebbe, they penetrated deeply into his heart's core. He collapsed entirely and fainted... When he awoke, he spoke to no one, but he began engaging in Torah study and prayer with a new vitality and devotion, forgetting everything else. Though he did not speak to anyone and fasted every day, devoting himself to Torah and heartfelt prayer, he was filled with great joy, and all his work was done with fervor and uplifted spirit."

Most people understand the relationship between a chassid and his Rebbe, and indeed the act of going to the Rebbe to receive a blessing, in the typical way: a person has a problem, difficulty, Heaven forbid, some challenge, and they go to ask for a blessing. Usually, they receive one, and it's wonderful.

But then the Alter Rebbe comes along and something new is born: a chassid comes to ask for a blessing that he thinks he needs, and the Rebbe, instead of answering him based on what the chassid thinks he needs, answers based on what he truly needs, thereby lifting him to another dimension. The Rebbe suddenly tells him, "You're asking me for something that will keep you in your world, but I want to take you into mine. I want to give you a new perspective on life, to take you to a different way of living, to transform you so you live differently." And like in the aforementioned awe-inspiring story, a Jew comes with his self, as he knows it, and the Alter Rebbe, raising his head in deep devotion to his soul – the part of God within him – connects to the chassid's soul and elevates him upward, sending him into a new world. This particular chassid was a vessel for it, and indeed he became a new person. (Don't worry, there was a happy ending – he eventually received a blessing and was able to repay his debts, etc.)

This story is the story of everyone who adheres to Chabad Chassidus. In the introduction to the Tanya, the Alter Rebbe writes, "Instead of coming to me for a personal meeting, what is known as a 'yechidus,' I am giving you this book that will do the work I would have done with you in 'yechidus.'" Wait, what does this mean for me? I'm a little Zalman sitting in Basel, dealing with regular struggles like anyone else, maybe like that chassid who came to the Alter Rebbe, and he's telling me: What I would tell you in a private meeting is written in the Tanya. Okay, so I open the Tanya, and there he's talking to me about a divine soul and its garments, about an intense unity with God, about who truly serves God, about a hidden love burning inside me. In other words, the Alter Rebbe is essentially telling me: "Zalman, fly upwards! There are entire worlds you've never known, there are layers within you that you haven't met, there's an entire dimension you haven't experienced. Step out of the material and physical world for a moment and come to meet your soul, your spirit, and your essence."

Lechaim, chassidim, Lechaim,

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

It's unpleasant to experience condescension. It's unpleasant to be around a person who looks down on you, and it's even more unpleasant when you ask for advice or help from a place of need, and the giver responds with a certain degree of condescension. 

I knew this; everyone knows this the moment they first experience condescension. What I didn't know is that sometimes, I myself can be condescending, or at least that's how the person speaking to me feels at times.

I have some memories in my mind, or perhaps more accurately, memories in my heart, of people who came to me, shared their pain, and I responded from a place of being knowledgeable, wise, the one who understands everything at once and knows what the other person is dealing with. It was gentle, wrapped in consideration, but the other person experienced condescension, bordering on disrespect.

These memories are not from the past year or even from two years ago, but not much longer than two years. I don't know if this happens today; I'm sure it does from time to time, but thank G-d I haven’t received feedback on it recently. I clearly remember the man or woman saying or writing to me later, “You should know it was hard for me to talk to you. I felt that you were coming from a condescending and disrespectful place.” I don't know if there's a more difficult experience than that; I felt terrible. At first, of course, I downplayed it internally—it's nonsense, I’m not condescending, they misunderstood, it's just their perception—but gradually, that annoying voice of my inner compass said to me, “You’re downplaying this to protect yourself, and that's fine, protect yourself as much as you want, but that won't help you grow.” 

When I gathered the courage and listened again to what they said, to the experience my conversation partner had, this time from a place of genuine, open listening, without defensiveness, I could clearly understand what they were talking about. It didn’t make it easier, but it did lead me to work on it.

In *Likkutei Sichos*, volume 24, in a discussion on the verse “and you shall make a parapet for your roof” (Deuteronomy 22:8), the Rebbe explains that in the context of personal work, the “roof” symbolizes arrogance and pride, and the parapet is needed to restrain this roof, to ensure it doesn’t cause harm—“and you shall make a parapet for your roof.”

The Rebbe then lays down the foundations for anyone who influences another person, and in my understanding, this includes relationships, parenting, and certainly for a Chabadnik.

Here are the words of the translated discourse: 

"The purpose of the 'parapet for your roof' is not so much to protect oneself from spiritual downfall but also for the sake of others, so that your roof—your arrogance and pride—does not cause the spiritual downfall of another Jew."

"When a person has pride, not only is it a flaw in their personal spiritual work, but it can also cause the downfall of the Jew upon whom they have influence. When one influences others with words that come from the heart, without personal interests or agendas, those words will surely reach the heart and have their intended effect."

"But if one's words are mixed with ego and pride, not only does this interfere with the success of their words and in drawing the other closer, it can even lead to the opposite—G-d forbid, their pride and words might distance the listener."

Wishing us success, 

Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The journey from Basel to Antwerp took seven hours. Mendel, 13 years old, is traveling to the yeshiva, a journey to a place of Torah, as the sages refer to it. We left at five in the morning and arrived at noon, thank G-d. Mendel slept for half of the trip while I listened to various podcasts. During the rest of the way, we talked about the yeshiva and what awaits him there, life in Antwerp, the distance from home, and more.

Although the King leaves His royal palace in the month of Elul to meet the people in the field, Mendel is traveling from the field to the palace, for the yeshiva is the King's palace. There, among the pages of the Talmud and the teachings of Chassidut, the King sits in all His glory.

The car sped along the highways from Switzerland to France, through Luxembourg to Belgium. The roads are smooth, and from the window, the green European landscape of late summer is visible. The sky is clear. Mendel chose songs as if he were an experienced DJ, while my thoughts raced about the world unraveling around us. In just a few years, something has changed, and it seems it will never return to what it once was, at least not anytime soon. Starting with the long lockdowns and cancellations due to COVID, and now the terrible war that weighs constantly on the heart—it doesn't matter whether the Jew is sitting in Basel, London, or on the E25 in Europe.

My thoughts are running wild—what's happening here? Where is all this headed? How is the nation of Israel doing? And how does all of this connect with Mendel going to study in a yeshiva far from home?

Mendel plays and sings a song in Hungarian Yiddish ("Interen"), and I suddenly remember a speech given in rich and eloquent Hebrew by the Hungarian Jew, Elie Wiesel, over a decade ago at Yeshivat Har Etzion (it’s on YouTube). In the speech, he wrestles with the Holocaust and faith, and at one point, he shares: "What saved me, what perhaps saved my sanity—when people ask me and my generation, 'How did you remain mentally healthy?' I have one answer: what helped me was Torah learning, simply learning Torah. I immediately, just immediately, ordered from the principal of the school where I had been in France the tractate I had taken with me to Auschwitz, and I wanted to continue from the very page I had stopped. And I continued, and that essentially saved me."

I didn’t tell this to Mendel—why burden him now with Elie Wiesel and Auschwitz? But for myself, I knew that at the yeshiva, G-d willing, he would find an anchor for life. An anchor that can be mobile and available anywhere, an anchor that provides stability even when everything around is stormy. 

When we arrived, there was a father-son learning session planned. The chosen tractate was Tractate Sukkah, a tractate Mendel knows by heart from last year. I also know it well since we reviewed it together every Shabbat. When we opened it and delved into the material, it was, at least for me, a type of anchor, something familiar, something from home.

This is the way of Torah. This is what our ancestors did, and this is what we do too.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The journey from Basel to Antwerp took seven hours. Mendel, 13 years old, is traveling to the yeshiva, a journey to a place of Torah, as the sages refer to it. We left at five in the morning and arrived at noon, thank G-d. Mendel slept for half of the trip while I listened to various podcasts. During the rest of the way, we talked about the yeshiva and what awaits him there, life in Antwerp, the distance from home, and more.

Although the King leaves His royal palace in the month of Elul to meet the people in the field, Mendel is traveling from the field to the palace, for the yeshiva is the King's palace. There, among the pages of the Talmud and the teachings of Chassidut, the King sits in all His glory.

The car sped along the highways from Switzerland to France, through Luxembourg to Belgium. The roads are smooth, and from the window, the green European landscape of late summer is visible. The sky is clear. Mendel chose songs as if he were an experienced DJ, while my thoughts raced about the world unraveling around us. In just a few years, something has changed, and it seems it will never return to what it once was, at least not anytime soon. Starting with the long lockdowns and cancellations due to COVID, and now the terrible war that weighs constantly on the heart—it doesn't matter whether the Jew is sitting in Basel, London, or on the E25 in Europe.

My thoughts are running wild—what's happening here? Where is all this headed? How is the nation of Israel doing? And how does all of this connect with Mendel going to study in a yeshiva far from home?

Mendel plays and sings a song in Hungarian Yiddish ("Interen"), and I suddenly remember a speech given in rich and eloquent Hebrew by the Hungarian Jew, Elie Wiesel, over a decade ago at Yeshivat Har Etzion (it’s on YouTube). In the speech, he wrestles with the Holocaust and faith, and at one point, he shares: "What saved me, what perhaps saved my sanity—when people ask me and my generation, 'How did you remain mentally healthy?' I have one answer: what helped me was Torah learning, simply learning Torah. I immediately, just immediately, ordered from the principal of the school where I had been in France the tractate I had taken with me to Auschwitz, and I wanted to continue from the very page I had stopped. And I continued, and that essentially saved me."

I didn’t tell this to Mendel—why burden him now with Elie Wiesel and Auschwitz? But for myself, I knew that at the yeshiva, G-d willing, he would find an anchor for life. An anchor that can be mobile and available anywhere, an anchor that provides stability even when everything around is stormy. 

When we arrived, there was a father-son learning session planned. The chosen tractate was Tractate Sukkah, a tractate Mendel knows by heart from last year. I also know it well since we reviewed it together every Shabbat. When we opened it and delved into the material, it was, at least for me, a type of anchor, something familiar, something from home.

This is the way of Torah. This is what our ancestors did, and this is what we do too.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

 Robert lived in Basel a few years ago for several years with his wife and three sons. They came from New Jersey to Basel. They would occasionally come to events at the Chabad House, and personally, Robert and I became good friends. We are still friends, and they now live back in New Jersey.

This week, he came to Basel and visited the Chabad House with his sons to say hello, see the bookshelf they helped establish in memory of his dear mother Malka, enjoy an excellent homemade yeast cake, say "L'chaim" together, and of course, put on tefillin.

During our conversation, we reminisced, and Robert recalled and shared with me and his sons a special experience he had, one that I would like to share with you because we can all learn from it.

It was on the first anniversary of his dear mother's passing, and he came to the Chabad House to pray and say Kaddish. I wasn’t in Basel that Shabbat, and Robert didn’t coordinate his visit with me, which is perfectly fine.

Robert began to say Kaddish, but somehow, very quickly, he felt he wasn’t keeping up with the pace. He was slow, and the Hebrew words, which he was reading from a phonetic text, meaning they were written in Latin letters, didn’t flow easily for him, and he felt quite embarrassed. Moreover, there was another congregant who was saying Kaddish quickly, and Robert felt that the congregation was not pleased with his slow, less polished recitation of Kaddish.

His discomfort and insecurity grew, and there was even a moment when he considered getting up and leaving the synagogue. But he quickly gathered himself and said to himself, "I came for my mother, I will stay for my mother."

Later, one of the congregants, who noticed Robert’s discomfort, approached him and offered to sit next to him. From that moment on, whenever they had to say Kaddish, the older, more experienced congregant stood with him, and together they recited the Kaddish slowly, word by word. The confidence, calm, and comfort returned.

Robert shared this story with his children exactly when we were putting on tefillin, and they had to find their way in the prayer book and recite the Shema. Robert wanted them to know not to run away from discomfort and insecurity if they arise because in the end, we are all human, and there’s a good chance you might feel uncomfortable in a synagogue you go to for the first time. But there’s just as good a chance that you’ll find a kind and sensitive person who will be there to lend a hand, an ear, and a lot of heart.

I admit that even though I already knew the story, it was difficult for me to hear him relive the experience. After all, he isn’t talking about just any synagogue; he’s talking about the Chabad House, and not just any Chabad House, but the one I am responsible for, where my soul is imprinted in its walls. I bear witness to heaven and earth that if there is one ultimate purpose for this place, it is precisely this: that every Jew feels at home here, whether it’s a slow or fast Kaddish, polished or stammered. Not only is there room for everyone, this is the place, and it is the very foundation of the existence of every Chabad House. And even though the story has a wonderful ending, where sensitivity did find its way to him and he left with a positive, formative experience, it was still hard to hear.

I learned from this then, and it’s a lesson that still stays with me: despite all your efforts and intentions, there is a chance that a Jew will not feel comfortable in your Chabad House. And that means reminding myself and the other congregants again and again, to remember and not forget, to come with and offer sensitivity, warmth, and love to all who enter the house of G-d, wherever it may be.

When he told me this again yesterday, I lifted my eyes to the heavens and quietly said: “Master of the Universe, I understand that I need to hear this again; apparently, I still have room for improvement here. Thank you for the reminder.”

To my friends who don’t come to the synagogue often, please, even if you had an unpleasant experience, don’t give up, come again.

To my friends who come to the synagogue often, please, when someone enters and makes you uncomfortable, consider that he is experiencing it sevenfold.

To my fellow rabbis, if you’ve read this text, well, it’s possible that G-d wanted to give you a reminder.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

 There are still two and a half hours until the flight from Istanbul to Almaty, and about an hour and a half until the information about the gate for the flight to Kazakhstan will appear on the screen.

It’s hot here, not really air-conditioned, and I’m thinking about my journey to visit Rabbi Levik. Rabbi Levik is the great rabbi, the chassidic scholar, and the kabbalist, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson, the Rebbe's father, who passed away on the 20th of Menachem Av 5704 (1944). This upcoming Shabbat marks 80 years since then, 1944 - 2024.

Rabbi Levik was exiled by the Soviets because he stood in their way of destroying Judaism in the Soviet Union, as he served as the chief and unwavering rabbi of the city now known as Dnipro, today in Ukraine, back then in the Soviet Union.

The Rebbe's father was sent to years of suffering in prisons and to a forgotten city of exile with extreme and nearly unbearable weather in Kazakhstan, where he eventually fell ill and passed away 80 years ago. Chabad chassidim wish to honor the Rebbe by essentially coming in his place to the grave of his father on his yahrzeit. (The American Chabadniks, who are not as familiar with the concept of organizing funds, getting excited, buying a ticket, getting excited again, and then flying a long way to reach a place where they will experience spiritual elevation, are particularly enthusiastic about this.)

I don't really know who Rabbi Levik was; I don't have the tools to appreciate the greatness of his personality, but from reading the diary of his wife, Rebbetzin Chana, of blessed memory, it becomes clear between the lines that she knew she was living with a great man. This was a woman who was the daughter of a rabbi, the wife of a rabbi, and the mother of the Rebbe, an intelligent and very wise woman, whose entire life revolved around extraordinary people. Yet, from her writings, it seems she understood that she was living alongside a man who lived life differently, a man who lived on a different plane than the rest of humanity.

Sometimes, I find that a concept I’m thinking about suddenly receives reinforcement from an unexpected source. This week, I met Dayan Raskin, also known as Dayan Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Raskin of London, whose father, Rabbi Shalom Ber Raskin, was 19 years old when he met Rabbi Levik in Almaty, Kazakhstan, during the last months of his life. I asked him if his father remembered Rabbi Levik. Dayan Raskin immediately said, "Of course he remembered, but one thing my father would always recall with teary eyes was how, after Rabbi Levik’s passing, Rebbetzin Chana cried, saying, 'A great man, who have you left us with?'"

In my humble opinion, each of us has moments of greatness. These are the moments when we are willing to give up what is important in the standard dimension of our lives for a life that expresses our core essence. Perhaps it’s not even a willingness to give up but simply an awareness that there is a completely different dimension of life—one that is deeper and more true—and in a moment of truth, we devote ourselves to it. 

Greatness, in my view, is the recognition of our inner personality, our divine soul, and living according to it. The direct result of this would be more humility and less pride, leading to less harm and vulnerability. The material race would calm down, resulting in less disappointment and more joy. Our self-worth would become spiritual, growing and flourishing because it would no longer be defined by material achievement.

If we lived this way, if we placed this in contrast to our daily conduct, we would come closer to the definition of a "great man."

Rabbi Levik was a great man in his very essence, in every moment of his life, in every word he spoke, and in everything he did.

I am not traveling to become a great man; I am traveling to connect to the greatness of others.

Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Here's something I haven't yet cracked emotionally. I mean, I pretty much understand it in my mind, but my heart somehow isn't fully in sync with the realization.

I have a friend who's an optician and owns a glasses store. We talk from time to time because, while he sees well physically and even helps others see well, when it comes to seeing beyond, what we call "seeing with the mind's eye" or perceiving reality, optics don't really help, and you need a good friend to challenge what seems obvious. 

So, my friend and I occasionally meet and talk, challenging each other's perspectives. When it comes to having a positive outlook on the world, we've made quite good progress. He and I have gradually learned to see the world in a positive light, and that wasn't easy. It's not easy for someone who's been used to seeing the good as "so-so," just about to end, and the bad as a static catastrophe, to change direction and see the bad as a temporary "so-so" and the good as a stable, amazing, beautiful, and wonderful state.

But then came the next stage, which I still haven't cracked, and that's what people today call a "prosperity mindset." TikToks and Instagrams are full of it, but I tried it a bit earlier—living with a prosperity mindset.

It turns out that, regardless of a person’s bank account, there are those who, even with a million dollars in the bank and a few investment properties on the side, live with a poverty mindset or at least a "so-so" mentality, not with a prosperity mindset. That means they're always feeling like it’s about to end, and everything will blow up eventually, and who knows what tomorrow will bring. Then there are those who have just what they need for today, and they live with a sense of abundance. They do worry in principle, but in their feelings, everything is fine, and it’s going to get even better. Or in my words, their head worries a little, but their heart is truly calm.

Once I understood this and noticed that I belong to the first type, the one who worries and lives with a sense of lack even when they have enough, I started searching for a way to live with a "prosperity mindset."

My optician friend was the perfect match for this, since he’s from the same background as me, received the same education, and, whether he has enough or not, lives with the feeling that it’s about to end, and worry runs his life.

Our success with the positive outlook helped a lot here, and indeed, our lives changed. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said they changed beyond recognition. But still, there's something that hasn't yet been cracked.

This week, we talked after a long time, and right at the beginning, he told me that a woman who works at a store near him said to him: "Du lebst im Bewusstsein der Armut." ("You live in a poverty mindset.") “How can that be? I’ve changed, and I see everything positively. So, what is this mindset?” And don’t get me wrong, we're talking about a cheerful person, smiling, loves people, kind, and generous.

I remembered a Rashi I studied in the daily Torah portion lesson on the verse, “For the Lord your God has blessed you in all the work of your hands; He knows your walking through this great wilderness these forty years; the Lord your God has been with you; you have lacked nothing.” And on this, Rashi, who seems to have come straight from a TED talk, a TikTok video, or a consciousness workshop, says: "For the Lord your God has blessed you"—therefore, don’t deny (lit. don’t cover up) His goodness by pretending to be poor; rather, show yourselves as wealthy."

Wait, what does it mean to "show yourselves as wealthy"? And what if I am poor?

(By the way, is it possible that Rashi wrote this in Worms, Germany? Maybe he also wrote "Bewusstsein der Armut/Reichtums"?)

I asked my friend: When you give your child 100 euros for a treat during the holidays, how hard is that for you? I’m not talking about something you consider a waste, but an expense you understand is unavoidable. When you spend it, what’s the experience like? If the experience is a certain tightening in the heart, then the mindset is still one of poverty. And maybe your neighbor in the business, with her great sensitivity, noticed this vibe that you're giving off.

To you, my friends, I say that I’m not there yet myself. The understanding is there; I believe I understand well what Rashi is saying, meaning what, according to Rashi, God demands of us, which is to live with a prosperity mindset—"for the Lord your God has blessed you...you have lacked nothing." But, as mentioned, my heart isn’t quite there yet.

With blessings for complete redemption, personal and collective.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

We couldn't manage a family vacation in the mountains this year as respectable homeowners do, but we did succeed in going on a short couples' getaway. Therefore, I thought of writing about the experience and thereby extending the vacation, at least in spirit or imagination.

Well, it is well-known in our family that I love water very much. Small or large waterfalls, rushing and quiet stream channels, and especially lakes. A lake broadens my soul greatly, and in Switzerland, which is rich in lakes, if the lake is located somewhere at the height of the Alps, how wonderful and pleasant it is since the soul expands from the altitude, the expanse, and the beauty, and all the ‚Ma Rabu Maasecha,' which is amplified, doubled, and tripled. But alas, I do not always reach the desired lake.

It goes like this: let's say the rented house is located at a height of 1500 or 1800 meters above sea level, so it's not too hot and not too cold. In the early morning, after morning prayers and breakfast, a person and his wife set out for the cable cars, preferably the open ones, which are like a bench rising between heaven and earth to a height of 2500 or 2700 meters. From there, he chooses a trail or route for a descent on foot from the mountain, usually a descent of an hour and a half to three hours. Quality hiking boots make all the difference, and the pleasant walk on the mountainsides between clouds, with snow that hasn't melted on one side and green summer expanses on the other, is the real deal. Wonderful conversations take place in such places between walkers, sometimes loud and noisy, sometimes smiling, and quite often a silent dialogue of long quiet, all full of thought.

This year, as mentioned, we spent a few days in the French Alps. We set out in the morning as described, and I said, why check routes in advance when you can just go with the flow? At worst, we'll end up somewhere different from where we started. We got off the open cable car, saw a sign indicating an hour and a half walk towards a lake. A brief look at the map there, and yes, there is a beautiful lake between the mountains. True, it was a fast day, the Seventeenth of Tammuz, but an hour and a half is nothing for us. We walked for three hours, descended the whole mountain, it was magnificent, splendid, and soul-expanding, but there was no lake, we didn't find it. I suppressed my deep disappointment and focused on the day that was.

The next day, we had a similar experience. This time we went down a trail near our lodging, people said, 'Go down there behind, half an hour between the trees and you'll reach a lake.' Again, I didn't check and just went with the flow, it was beautiful and pleasant, but we didn't find a lake. And I, who imagined sitting by the lake and perhaps even dipping my tired feet in it, found myself sitting on a stone by a winding road, basking in my disappointment.

As I looked inward to understand if I was disappointed because I didn't reach the lake or because 'I' didn't reach the lake, meaning, is the disappointment that there is no lake or that I made a mistake again, the question was cast to the Master of the Universe, "Dear Father, why did you send me day after day to deal with this? What is my lesson here?"

Pretty quickly, I realized it’s either-or, either you go with the flow as you like when setting out, and then it’s not certain you’ll find your lake and you’ll be disappointed, or you plan your outing properly, not as spontaneously, and then you’ll definitely reach the water and not be disappointed.

‘What do you prefer,’ my wife asked when I shared my thoughts with her, ‘to plan or to be disappointed? To go with the flow or to reach the water?’ ‘Both,’ I replied immediately. Yes, I want to both go with the flow without planning and also reach the water. Which is a lovely desire, perhaps a bit childish, but definitely charming. ‘And what is your lesson from these two lake-less days?’ she continued to challenge. I was silent; I had no answer, or perhaps I didn’t have the courage to acknowledge it. But the next day, I already knew: my significant lesson is dealing with disappointment. This means, in essence, knowing how to contain the disappointment from the mistake or miss so that it doesn’t overshadow the day that has passed and the one to come.

I trust you, my dear friends, to know how to connect this reflection to the Torah portion of Masei, for this is a story of a dual journey. Physical and spiritual, geographical and emotional, pedestrian and heartfelt.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

I traveled the world this week. On Monday evening, I was in Bucharest, invited to lecture at an event organized by Chabad House Romania in honor of the Rebbe, marking 30 years since his passing. On Tuesday morning, I flew from there to New York to be at the 'Ohel', the Rebbe's resting place, on the 30th yahrzeit. By Thursday morning, I was already home in Basel, and tonight we will host 25 guests at our table.

Everywhere I went, I met Jews, mostly Chabadniks or people connected to Chabad. In every place, I encountered a lot of pain but also a lot of hope. In everyone, I saw the weight of October 7th, but simultaneously the weight of responsibility—the responsibility that leads to positive action. I saw the people of Israel, who know how to lift their heads in any situation, the Jews who know how to endure but immediately move forward and not stop. To experience the pain and solidarity and still remain joyful and hopeful that things will be good. Because that's how it is, that's who we are. Am Yisrael Chai.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

She was an American girl from California who had just discovered her Jewish roots. She was learning in a girls’ seminary for people just like her. But her mother had not yet accepted this determination of hers to become religious, and every visit to her home in California ended up being a nightmare of disagreements and explosions.

“That’s it!” She told her friends. “I am cutting off relations with my mother. If she isn’t willing to accept me, then I won’t accept her.”

Her friends begged her: “This is a fateful move. Go the Rebbe, ask him for his advice.” Reluctantly, she agreed to do so.

In the Rebbe’s room, overawed, she told the Rebbe of her decision.

The Rebbe then began to do something very uncharacteristic: he began to talk of himself, of his greatness and of the great honor he enjoyed. “Were you here for Shabbat? Did you see the thousands who wait on my every word? Did you notice how much they respect me? Did you see how, with one wave of my hand, they start dancing? You surely know as well, that each and every one of the Chassidim there, if I just say so, will pick up and leave immediately on a mission from me to any part of the world.”

“Yes, Rebbe, I saw everything,” the young woman answered, surprised at what she was hearing, which seemed to be bordering on pride, even haughtiness.

“Well,” said the Rebbe, “I am willing to give all of this up – all of it! In order to meet my mother of blessed memory even one more time. And you – you can just get on a plane any time and meet your mother, and this is your attitude?

“So it’s a little hard for you. With Hashem’s help you will find the right way to cope. But to give up on your mother? No! No!”

Moshe Rabbeinu did a similar thing, as told in this week’s Parasha. After Korach and his people, headed by Datan and Aviram, refused to come and meet him, Moshe got up with all his eminence and glory, causing the seventy Elders to follow him to the encampment of the troublemakers. Moshe hoped and expected that perhaps his greatness and eminence, glory and distinction would cause Korach’s people to respect him and to agree to sit down with him and settle the differences between them.

“Moshe arose and went to Datan and Aviram, and the Elders of Israel went after him.” Datan and Aviram didn’t change their minds – for them it was too late – but we can learn from this that when the need arises, one should present things as they are, because perhaps that will bring some peace to the world.

Next Tuesday, the 3rd of Tammuz, we will mark the 30th yahrzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. This is a day for introspection and reflection, aimed at learning more from him, adopting his approach and attitude towards every person. For some of us, this will be a significant paradigm shift, and for others, it will be an additional reinforcement of what we already believe in. Either way, we have work to do.

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Listen to something that for me is a key point in life.

A friend of mine was about to open a new business in a field that was quite crowded. I am not a businessman, and I don’t understand much about these things, but this was a long time ago, when I saw myself as being very wise, and I thought it only right to inform him that the market is very crowded in the area he is going into. He is taking a great risk, I said, and added a few more things that clueless people say to someone who is trying to open a new business. The friend, who is about twenty years older than me, said: “From my experience, the founders of eighty percent of new businesses that open are told by eighty percent of the people they spoke to that the business will not succeed due to some “logical” reason or another. The businesses that survived were those of good businessmen who listened to only twenty percent of their advisors.”

His business, by the way, is alive and kicking and producing a good living for his family, Thank G-d.

And, also by the way, since then I don’t feel so wise anymore.

Parashat Shelach is a lesson for life.

Before facing any challenge, and during one as well, it is worthwhile to open the parasha and study it – or even just read it as a story.

In any challenging situation or before any fateful decision we have in front of us the data. The data is dry, almost black-and-white. Our decision will depend on our interpretation of these data or events – the color we will give them. Will we leave them in black, will we paint them in glowing colors of pink and yellow, or will we choose heavy, dark grays and browns?

Twelve leaders of the nation went to tour the land. They were in it for forty days, saw all of it: the giant, fierce people, the beautiful vistas, its large and well-fortified cities and its mountains, some of which were settled by the Hittites, the Yevusites and the Emorites. They saw and even carried jointly its huge, heavy fruits. They also toured its streams and rivers, where the Canaanites lived. They all agreed that it was a land flowing with milk and honey.

These were the data. The rest was interpretation.

Almost like in my friend’s statement, here, too, eighty-three percent of the twelve people sent painted the data black, gray and brown. “But the people that dwell in the land are powerful… We cannot ascend to that people for it is too strong for us… the land devours its inhabitants.” And, of course, the wonderful summary that explains all: “and we were like grasshoppers in our eyes,” so, naturally, “so we were in their eyes.”

But Calev ben Yefuneh, a bit like my friend, painted those exact same details in entirely different colors: We shall surely ascend and conquer it… the land that we passed through to spy it out – the land is very, very good! If Hashem desires us, He will bring us to this land and give it to us, a land that flows with milk and honey.”

And this, friends, is the entire story – the story of the lives of all of us.

May we be successful in our endeavors!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

The military cabinet of the Russian Tsar was in despair. Napoleon’s army was in the process of conquering vast tracts of land; cities and villages were overtaken easily, and he was close to the capital. The Tsar was listening to the army generals, and they were showing him on the map how close the French army was. “In such a situation,” they summed up the discussion, “we haven’t any way at all to prepare a counter attack.”

The Tsar nodded, and then motioned to his personal military secretary to come to him. “Go to my office,” he said to him, “and bring back the large map of Russia that is hanging on the wall.” This map was ten times bigger than the map in the war cabinet room.

The map was brought, and then the Tsar turned to the army generals and said: “Now, explain the situation again. How close is Napoleon, and why don’t we have any chance of advancing?” On the large map, Napoleon didn’t look so close anymore, and suddenly it seemed that there was hope and that it wasn’t too late to go out on an offensive and save the situation.

I don’t know if this story really happened or not, but I use it often when I have to explain this concept to myself or to someone else who is at a crossroads in his life, and it seems to him that all is lost – it’s too late and all that can be done, as the saying goes, will be too little and too late. At that point I try to enlarge the map, stretch the picture of the situation both vertically and horizontally, and suddenly it seems that every step and action, which on the small map seemed barely noticeable and unimportant, can be seen on the large map as being significant and very impressive. And then one acquires the desire and the strength to prepare an offensive.

And something else for those among us who are struggling: when we begin to make changes in our lives—whether in behavior or feeling, in action and speech, or even in thought—we must not wait for immediate applause and recognition from our surroundings. The people around us, even those closest to us, do not immediately recognize the change, the process, and certainly not the trend. Why? Because they have not expanded their perspective and therefore do not see our small steps. But we do see them. We know that this time, our frustration over something that happened lasted five minutes instead of six. We notice that the negative and pessimistic outlook was less determined than before, that the despair or setback lasted two days instead of two and a half. These are things that only we can see. There is nothing to do but acknowledge and note these changes for ourselves on the larger map and continue. Gradually, the change will become a process, the process will become a trend, and suddenly, the environment will be surprised and ask: “Hey, you’ve changed! Amazing, how did you do it?”

Presented in honor of the story of “Pesach Sheni” that appears in this week’s parasha, parashat Beha’alotcha. There, too, it seemed that all was lost, and that there was no way to make up for the missed Pesach. But the bigger picture told another story, and they were granted another chance.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalmen Wishedski

Last Saturday, I said in my sermon at the Chabad House that Shavuot is not just a holiday of cheesecake, but it is a special day on which we received the Torah. While it is very pleasant, tasty, and also important to follow the custom of eating dairy and especially cheesecake, that is not the main point.

Some of the congregants, both men and women, approached me afterward during the kiddush and, without coordinating among themselves, smiled and told me that it wasn’t nice of me to suspect that, for them, the holiday is just about cheesecake. Cheesecake is not the central theme of the holiday for us; Dvora’s Lotus cake is the main topic.

The truth is that there is no special mitzvah from the Torah for Shavuot. The Torah's instructions for Sukkot are to sit in the sukkah and take the four species, for Pesach to avoid chametz and eat matzah and maror. Rosh Hashanah is a day of blowing the shofar, and on Yom Kippur, ‘you shall afflict your souls’ is the mitzvah, the fast. On Shavuot, there is no special mitzvah. There are various customs, but no special mitzvah for the holiday.

It is also interesting that the sages refer to Shavuot as ‘Atzeret,’ even though in the Torah it is not mentioned as ‘Atzeret.’ Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev writes in his book Kedushat Levi: I was asked in the state of Lithuania why Shavuot is called Atzeret when the name Atzeret is only mentioned in the Torah regarding Shemini Atzeret. And I answered simply: it appears that in all holidays there are two types of service to the Creator, blessed be He. One is performing the mitzvah related to that specific holiday, such as eating matzah on Pesach and similar. The second is the prohibition of work. On Shavuot, it is not so; there is only one mitzvah (just the prohibition of work), that is, we refrain from work, and for this reason, it is called Atzeret.

In other words, the Berdichever says that on Shavuot, there is one central thing: stopping.

I thought it would be nice to stop for a moment the race of life. To stop the stress and tension. To stop everything my system is used to thinking and feeling, even to stop my solid opinion on everything and perhaps try to re-examine everything anew? After all, we want to receive the Torah anew, and in my view, receiving it anew means receiving it at a deeper level, expanding my emotional and mental capacity to receive more of Hashem’s Torah, and that is not something that can be done without stopping. And how lucky we are that outside of Israel, we have two days for this.

Chag Sameach, with blessings for receiving the Torah with joy and inwardness,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski