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Rabbi's weekly Blog

A human-made miracle

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

What is your fear?

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

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! 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

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