ב"ה

Rabbi's weekly Blog

My longing wehrher app

Thursday, February 27, 2025 - 11:21 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, that’s how it seems to me.

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

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

So maybe, after all, this post is complete?

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

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The First Time I Faced Something That Felt Overwhelming

Friday, February 21, 2025 - 4:29 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This guided imagery helped me immensely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try it at home.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

'sinners of Israel'

Thursday, February 13, 2025 - 6:44 AM

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

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