In my head, I am an extremely productive person. I have learned everything I set out to learn, gotten fit, and become a calmer, more disciplined human being. Unfortunately, my actual life did not get the memo.

That is one of the dangers of keeping everything private. The dream remains beautiful because reality never gets a vote.

There is a concept called hischayvus. The closest English word is probably accountability, though even that does not capture it fully. It means putting something outside yourself. A commitment that once lived only in your head becomes real enough that someone else can ask about it later.

“How is it going?”

“Did you finish it?”

“What happened with that project?”

Suddenly, the personal idea that was once carried internally has a life of its own. Now you or I will feel responsible to do something with it.

There is something very powerful about this. Anyone who has ever tried to create something, or even to work on himself, knows how easy it is to stay in your own head, even for years on end. A dream can feel alive because it has not yet been tested. A project can remain beautiful because it has not yet met the slow, ordinary effort required to build it.

When someone reacts and says that something mattered to him, it moves you. The work starts to move beyond the idea in your head.

At least, that is how it is supposed to work. In my own life, I have noticed something strange. Sometimes, when I say out loud that I am going to do something, whether it is to learn more seriously, eat better, wake up earlier, or be more present with my children, the declaration itself seems to work against me.

I do not know exactly why that happens. Maybe it creates pressure too early or drains the private energy of the goal. Maybe saying the thing gives me the small satisfaction of movement before I have actually moved. But there are times when sharing the commitment does not strengthen it. It weakens it.

My brother, Rabbi Sender Haber, pointed out that the Piaseczna Rebbe says something similar. Sometimes an idea begins as something spiritual, private, and untouched. The moment you say it out loud, it enters the physical world. That can be necessary, because nothing gets built if it never leaves the mind. While at the same time, it can also lower the idea before it has had space to develop.

Then I tell myself that I should have kept it private. I should have just done the thing and let the work become real on its own. But that has its own problem, because when everything stays private, it often stays vague. The goal remains protected, but it also remains unfinished.

That is the strange catch-22 of accountability. Saying it out loud can distort the work, but keeping it hidden can allow it to disappear.

My writing became the place where I felt both sides of this most clearly. For a long time, accountability helped me write. I tried to put something out each week. It was a serious challenge for me, but it was good. It forced me to pay attention to the world around me and to take the ideas floating around in my head and bring them into the parashah. It gave me a rhythm, and sometimes the rhythm itself did a lot of the work. There were weeks when inspiration came early, and there were weeks when, try as I might, I could not connect with anything.

A mentor once told me not to force it. If nothing was resonating, I let there be some space between the words. Still, I knew people were reading. I felt it when someone told me he was reading the pieces at the Shabbos table, or when people showed me in concrete ways that the writing meant something to them. That meant a tremendous amount to me, and it still does. I do not take it lightly when someone gives attention to something I wrote, especially because I tend to write long pieces in a world that is afraid to ask anyone to sit with anything for too long.

That kind of appreciation creates its own hischayvus. When you realize that your words matter to someone, you want to keep showing up. An idea is no longer just yours. Once it reaches someone else, it becomes shared property.

Once people are reading, something can shift. It may no longer be only, “What am I trying to understand?” or “What needs to be said?” It can become, “What do people expect from me?” or “What do I need to put out next?”

The work may still look the same from the outside. It may still be consistent, useful, and appreciated. Yet inside, something starts to feel different. The original impulse gets weaker.

I saw an idea recently that stayed with me. There are two reasons a person can climb a mountain. He can climb because the mountain matters. The challenge itself means something. He wants to know what the climb will demand from him and what it will do to him. Or he can climb so that when he reaches the top, he can turn around and wave to everyone below.

There is a world of difference between climbing because the mountain matters and climbing because we want people to look up and clap. Applause is beautiful and meaningful when people notice and care, but we cannot climb solely for the clap.

Working in publishing, I have seen another version of this. One thing we often tell young, idealistic authors is to be careful about writing a book too early, before they have lived with the ideas long enough. Young people often have a clarity and energy that older people have learned to bury under layers of sophistication. However, a book is not a fleeting thought. It has a longer shelf life than a mood. Sometimes a person can write something at twenty-five that he will regret at forty-five because it belonged to a mountain he no longer believes was his to climb.

Robin Sharma writes about the danger of spending a life climbing mountain after mountain, only to realize at the end that they were the wrong ones. The deeper question is not only where we are climbing, but why. A person can do everything right and still realize that he gave his best energy to something that was never truly his.

Often, seeking the clap changes the climb itself. It changes the way you climb and even what you are able to learn from it.

Writing, or creating anything lasting, is sometimes a way of sharing what we know. Often, it is also the way something becomes understood in the first place. It is where a vague feeling becomes a sentence, or where we realize that a thought should remain a thought and not be put to paper. It is where you may realize that the idea that you thought you had understood, is asking more of you than you first imagined.

Rick Rubin makes this point in The Creative Act. We tend to think the artist’s work is the finished product, while the deeper work is a way of being in the world. Yes, what we produce matters, as it is the tangible result of our learning. However, that is not the whole story. Writing itself is also a way of learning something more deeply. Sometimes the private struggle to understand something changes you more than sharing it ever could.

Recently, I began working on a different kind of project. It is harder, slower, and less immediate. It does not fit neatly into a weekly rhythm or a quick finished piece. It requires more thought, more patience, and probably more time than my usual writing. So I find myself facing the same question again.

Should a project like that remain private until it is done? Should it be worked on slowly and brought out only when it is complete? Or should it be shared piece by piece, letting people come along for the unfinished parts too?

Part of the answer is that the work often reveals itself only after it begins. Most things cannot be understood before the work begins. Sometimes the project reveals itself only after enough time has been spent with it. It begins with one intention, and then the material pushes back. It may ask for more time than expected. It may demand a different direction than the one imagined at the beginning.

The upside of sharing is that it gets you moving. It forces you to stop thinking only about the work and actually create something. It keeps the project from becoming one more beautiful thing buried in the cemetery of good intentions. Anyone who has a folder full of unfinished ideas knows exactly how easily that happens. There are books that never became books, essays that never became essays, and projects that remained eternally “in development,” which is often just a professional-sounding way of saying that nobody forced them to exist.

The downside is that sharing creates pressure. It can turn an inner process into a performance. It can make the question shift from “What am I trying to understand?” to “What comes next?” Once that happens, the work may still be consistent and useful, but something inside it can start to thin out.

There is a difference between accountability and dependence. Rick Rubin writes that rules are not good or bad in themselves. There are only rules that serve the work and rules that do not. That feels right to me. A deadline, a chavrusa, a public commitment, or a self-imposed obligation is a tool. It can make us show up when we would rather drift. It can also push the work toward something it was never meant to become.

In yeshivah, this is part of the genius and the frustration of a chavrusa. In theory, it is easier to learn alone. Alone, a person can move at his own pace, follow his own mind, and organize the sugya according to the way his brain works. A chavrusa disrupts that. Another person is sitting across from you, asking questions you did not ask, getting stuck on things you thought were obvious, and pushing you into places you may not have gone on your own. It can feel limiting and inefficient. It can also force the learning to become more honest, because once an idea has to survive another person’s question, it becomes clear very quickly whether the idea actually holds.

I thought about this recently because of a friend who asked me how my writing was going. I admire him because he has built a serious, balanced life between work and Torah. He carries real responsibilities. He shows up for his work, his learning, and the community. He keeps demanding things from himself without turning his life into a public production. Along with everything else on his plate, he learns eight daf a day.

He told me that the first time he set out to finish Shas in a year, he told people. He created the hischayvus. People knew about it. They encouraged him. They asked him how it was going. Knowing that people would check in helped him keep going.

But once he finished, something shifted. He no longer felt the same need to tell the world. The first time, the public commitment helped him prove to himself that it was possible. After that, the proof lived inside him. He had climbed the mountain once, and now he knew the mountain could be climbed.

That, to me, is a healthy form of hischayvus. It begins outside, but if it is working properly, it slowly becomes internal. The goal is not to need an audience forever. The goal is to use the commitment long enough to discover that you no longer need to rely on it.

Because sometimes the obligation becomes a crutch. We begin to rely on being watched, asked, needed, or expected. The public commitment that once helped us move can slowly replace the inner reason we started moving in the first place. We confuse output with honesty, consistency with authenticity.

There is an opposite danger too. A person can say, “I only want to create when it comes from within,” and that can be deeply true. It can also be an elegant way to hide. We are very good at disguising avoidance as authenticity. “I am waiting until it feels real” can mean exactly that. It can also mean that I am afraid to be tested by the work.

There is also a point where trying too hard to be sincere becomes its own performance. You start watching yourself for purity instead of doing the work. You ask whether the feeling is pure enough, deep enough, honest enough, and before long the search for sincerity becomes another way not to begin. Sometimes sincerity does not come from staring at yourself. It comes from entering the process and letting it strip away what is false.

This does not happen only in writing. It happens in marriage, work, religious life, and growth. Whenever another person, system, obligation, or deadline is involved, it becomes very easy to locate the pressure outside ourselves. A spouse becomes the reason for feeling limited. The job becomes the reason there is no room to breathe. The audience becomes the reason the work feels trapped by expectations. Responsibilities become the explanation for why everything still feels stuck.

Sometimes there is truth in that. Life is not lived in a vacuum, and other people do affect us. Marriage and parenting, perhaps more than almost anything else, bring a person face-to-face with himself. The people closest to us do not meet only the version of us that exists in our minds. They meet the version that shows up under pressure, when we are tired, disappointed, needed, or exposed. That is part of the strength of marriage and family life. They do not allow us as individuals to remain theoretical for long.

There is a reason the side mirror says, “Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.” Some things look as if they are behind us because they belong to the past, but they are still much closer than we realize. Old fears and old ways of protecting ourselves do not always disappear just because life has moved on. Sometimes they are right there in the mirror, affecting how we see what is happening now.

At the same time, there is a point where blaming the conditions becomes its own prison. The obstacles may be real and heavy. A difficult relationship, a demanding job, or a responsibility that keeps taking more than expected can leave a serious mark on a life. However, if those conditions become the whole explanation for why we are stuck, then we have handed them too much power.

There is a certain moment of adulthood when a person realizes that even if the conditions are not fair, the work is still his. To think that everything is his fault is childish in the other direction. The reason is simpler: blame does not build anything. Blame may explain the wound, but it does not climb the mountain. At some point, the question becomes: What can I still take responsibility for, even here, now, and with the capacity I actually have?

There are also moments when all the outside pressure falls away, and a person is left alone with himself. Then the question gets much harder. Without the person to blame, without the audience to impress, without the deadline to resent, without the pressure to fight against, what remains? What do you actually want? What are you actually willing to build? What work are you willing to do when nobody is clapping along?

That is where the real climb begins.

There is another piece here too. Not every desire to be seen is the same as climbing for the clap. A person does not need an audience for every good thing he does, but he does need, at least sometimes, to know that the good he is trying to do is not invisible. We need to be human, too.

The goal is not to choose between obligation and authenticity. The goal is to hold them in the right proportion. Enough hischayvus to keep moving, but not so much that the obligation becomes the whole engine. Enough accountability to keep the work honest, but enough space to keep it alive. Enough public commitment to prevent the project from disappearing, but enough privacy to make sure it still belongs to the one doing it. Some things need to be spoken aloud so they can become real, and some things need to be protected long enough to become real from the inside.

There is no clean formula for this. Each person has to keep asking whether accountability is making the work more honest or turning it into another performance. Sometimes hischayvus saves a person from himself. It gives direction to vague desire and forces a dream into the world. But sometimes the same accountability becomes a way of avoiding the deeper question: Am I climbing because the mountain is mine to climb, or because I want to be seen at the summit? The answer will not always be flattering. That is probably why the question matters.

The hope is to climb because the mountain matters. If others are there along the way, if they encourage, read, respond, notice, or clap, that is a gift. A real gift. Still, it cannot be the reason for the climb.

The climb has to do something to you.

Otherwise, you reached the top and missed the mountain.

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Clap for me

Previously, we explored the inner understanding of Perek Beis, in which the raging nations represent the forces within a person that resist rootedness, obligation, and alignment with Hashem.

We now turn to the historical perspective of the mizmor. Here, that same struggle appears not within the soul, but on the battlefield of Dovid HaMelech’s life, as the nations rise against his newly established kingship.

In the next essay, we will turn to the future vision of Gog u’Magog, where this resistance reaches its final form.

To understand the historical context of the perek, it is worth first returning to the events described in Shmuel Beis, perek 5.

The Navi tells us that all the shevatim came to Dovid in Chevron and declared him Melech. This was the third stage of Dovid’s anointing. First, Shmuel anointed him privately. Then Shevet Yehudah accepted him as Melech. Finally, the ziknei Yisrael came to Chevron and accepted him as Melech over all of Klal Yisrael.

From there, Dovid went to capture …

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Everyone wants the rewards of alignment. Far fewer people want the roots that make it possible.

Chazal teach that there is not an absolute division between the first two chapters of Tehillim. Perek Aleph and Perek Beis are, in some sense, one unit. The Gemara1 notes that this unit begins with אשרי and ends with אשרי, Perek Aleph begins with אשרי האיש, and Perek Beis concludes with אשרי כל חוסי בו.

The Gemara continues that any mizmor of Tehillim that begins with אשרי and ends with אשרי was especially beloved to Dovid HaMelech. Tosafos2 asks why Chazal state this as a general rule if this is the only place in Tehillim that follows that exact pattern.

The Rashba3 explains that the point is broader. It does not have to be specifically אשרי. Rather, when a section concludes in the same way that it begins, it creates a fuller form of praise. The Rashba adds that this is the basis for the structure of many berachos, whose endings reflect their openings.

The Chasam Sofer4 adds that this pattern is e…

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You watch Curious George as a kid and see a monkey making trouble.

You watch it as a father and suddenly respect the Man with the Yellow Hat. He is one of us, a tired guy who works hard, raises a chaotic little kid, and somehow does it without yelling or losing it.

Hats off to him.

Then you wonder if Hashem looks at us the same way, with all our chaos and all our messes, and somehow still has that much patience.

Maybe that is why everything always works out for George in the end. Not because he deserves it, but because someone is watching over him the whole time.

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Tehillim The Language Of The Soul

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As we explained in the introduction, Tehillim gives expression to every state of the human soul. It is a structure that shows us from the very start , how a person should be aligned spiritually.

Tehillim begins:

“אַשְׁרֵי־הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר לֹא הָלַךְ בַּעֲצַת רְשָׁעִים וּבְדֶרֶךְ חַטָּאִים לֹא עָמָד וּבְמוֹשַׁב לֵצִים לֹא יָשָׁב”

The Targum translates Ashrei as טוביה דגבר, “the good of man.” A person is considered good when he is spiritually aligned.

Rav Aharon Kotler1 explains that the continuation of the pasuk teaches that even when a person is spiritually aligned, he must remain cognizant of his surroundings. The moment that alignment weakens, he begins to slide down a slippery slope.

Rav Elchanan Wasserman2 adds that a person cannot assume that nothing will happen to him. One must always be careful to maintain that alignment.

It is interesting that Dovid HaMelech chose to begin Tehillim in a negative tense. Instead of describing that one is fortunate to walk with tzaddikim, stand with the up…

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Pesach Essays 5786

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This time of year, between Purim and Pesach, is often challenging as we transition from winter into spring and begin preparing for Yom Tov.

This year, Parashas Zachor came together with the eradication of the Haman of our times. The weeks since then have been both harrowing and miraculous. Yes, we are at war. Yes, there are indiscriminate missiles that soar over our heads in an unpredictable fashion. Yes, we are privileged to live in a land of miracles. At the same time, yes, the anxiety and tension are tangible.

As Purim approached, people began speaking about the ‘imminent’ Geulah. The words of the Bnei Yissaschar spread rapidly: that the beginning of the Geulah would be on Purim and culminate with the destruction of Amalek on Erev Pesach. Geulah is in the air.

WhatsApp groups, with hundreds of members, are learning the halachos of Korban Pesach. People are quietly hoping that this year’s Chol HaMoed trip will be to Yeru…

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This project is an attempt to understand Tehillim more deeply. Tehillim is a central part of Jewish life, with its perakim forming much of our tefillah and its pesukim shaping our songs of yearning and inspiration.

While we do not necessarily know the precise order in which Tehillim was written, nor the authorship of every chapter, the order we have is rooted in our mesorah. There are ten expressions of praise found throughout Tehillim—ניצוח, ניגון, מזמור, שיר, הלל, תפילה, ברכה, הודאה, אשרי, and הללויה—each reflecting a different mode of song, prayer, or spiritual expression.

This structure corresponds to the ten primary contributors to Tehillim, aside from Dovid Hamelech: Adam, Avraham, Malki Tzedek, Asaf, Heiman, Yedusun, the three sons of Korach—Asir, Elkana, and AviAsaf—and Moshe Rabbeinu…

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Dedicated L’ilui Nishmas my friend and neighbor, Rabbi Simcha Lauer (ר׳ שמחה יצחק בן אליעזר ע״ה), who moved up to the Yeshiva Shel Maala this week after a difficult illness. Simcha was an early supporter of this blog and contributed toward supporting it.

In memory of Simcha, I am offering a 20 percent discount on subscriptions. Subscribers can access all the content here while also supporting my work.

May we have easy, pleasant days ahead and merit the geula b’karov.

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Originally written in 2023

The Jewish people are gathered together, awaiting Moshe Rabbeinu's delivery of the grand plan of the Mishkan and eagerly anticipating its unveiling. For the past 2.5 Parashiyos, Moshe has been learning the plan from Hashem, and now it is time to relay it to the people. Despite the excitement surrounding this momentous occasion, Moshe begins by emphasizing the importance of observing Shabbos, before delving into the fundraising pitch and assembly instructions for the dwelling place of God. Why does Moshe start off with the sanctity of Shabbos instead of starting like Hashem did with the fundraising pitch of the Mishkan, after all we already knew about Shabbos from Sinai?

In his sefer Mei HaShiloach, the Izhbitzer teaches us1 that Shabbos serves as a reminder that before undertaking any action, one must have a clear understanding that it aligns with the will of Hashem. Otherwise, it is not permissible to proceed with that action.

He teaches further;2 The Torah tells us that  “A man shall fear his mother and father, and you shall keep my Shabbos’ ….”3

The Izhbitzer explains based on the Zohar4 that this represents three factors that one must consider before taking any action. Firstly, one must ensure their actions align with God's will, as symbolized by keeping Shabbos. Secondly, one must ensure that their actions do not harm the community, which is represented by honoring the father. The father's role is to impart knowledge to the son, even if it may temporarily cause distress, as the father knows it is ultimately for the son's benefit. Lastly, one must confirm that their actions will not cause harm to themselves, as symbolized by honoring the mother. The mother desires the son to follow the path of good, even if it goes against their wishes, without causing them unnecessary suffering.

To gain a deeper understanding of this concept, we can refer to a fundamental idea of the Mirrer mashgiach, Rav Yerucham Levovitz5. He first quotes the Meforshim who explain that it would have been impossible for Betzalel to possess the necessary knowledge and skills to build the Mishkan, considering the Bnei Yisrael were professional mud brick makers while in Mitzrayim and were unfamiliar with precious metals and their craftsmanship. Therefore, Hashem promised Moshe that He would provide Betzalel with all the knowledge required to complete the task at hand.

Next, Rav Yerucham quotes from the Midrash6 where Moshe asks Hashem about the identity of Betzalel. In response, Hashem shows Moshe the book of Adam HaRishon, which contains the lineage of all future generations until Techiyas HaMeisim. The leaders, prophets, and kings of each generation were predetermined at the beginning of time, including Betzalel.

The Mashgiach then offers a profound interpretation of this Midrash. He explains that before Adam's chet, everything was perfect, but with the chet came a loss of shleimus (completeness) and man became imperfect. In order to return to a state of perfection, man must undergo a 6,000 year process of tikkun (repair) to rectify and regain the state of shleimus that existed before the chet.

Furthermore, Rav Yerucham suggests that the book of Adam HaRishon was not a physical book, but rather Adam himself was the book. This means that before the chet, all future generations, including Betzalel, were in a state of perfection within Adam. Hashem was showing Moshe that Betzalel's perfection and mastery of the skills required to build the Mishkan were already predetermined in the book of Adam HaRishon.

Rav Yerucham then offers an explanation as to why Hashem used the book of Adam HaRishon to prove His point about Betzalel. He explains that this was to teach us the fundamental principle that the foundation of every person's creation, which is already engraved in the book of Adam HaRishon, is essential for their future to be maintained. A thinking individual who seeks to understand where their main focus and efforts should be directed, to achieve their maximum potential, in order to fulfill their purpose, must first look at their past. They should thoroughly examine it to recognize its root and beginning. By using their history and past to inform the work they do on their future, they will be assured of success and the continuity of their future.

I am sharing the original language of the Mashgiach, as it so beautiful.

אלא כי ללמדנו בא, כי בלתי יסוד יצירת כל אדם ואדם אשר חקוק כבר בספרו של אדם הראשון, לא יכול להתקיים עתידו, איש אשר רוח בו ומשתוקק לדעת הסתגלותו במה להשים עמלו ומגמתו כל ימי חייו, ראשית הכל עליו לראות ולספר להכין וגם לחקור היטב היטב את העבר שלו, ולהכיר שרשו והתחלתו, ואז כאשר יעמיד עבודת עתידו קבל העבר שלו, היינו שימשוך עתידו ממקור עברו, כי אז בטוח ודאי יהיה בהצלחת וקיום עתידו. 

This is what Hashem was showing Moshe. In order for Betzalel to be successful, it was necessary that Hashem show Moshe the essence of Betzalel, which is in the book Adam HaRishon, since the beginning of time.  As we explained that in the past, before the chet, everything was already perfectly fixed in practice, completed and whole. Consequently, to continue the future, only a light moment is needed, to pause and reflect and direct the attention towards the future.

Rav Yerucham stresses that one should not misunderstand this as the common way of understanding the matter of Koach and Poel, where receiving the potential is seen as something new in actuality, but in truth, everything is already completely fixed and finished, and what is lacking is just something small - the pause, the moment of reflection. 

During a conversation with my Rav, Rav Gerzi, he shared with me a captivating insight from the Arizal7. As previously mentioned, we all originate from Adam and are part of him. While this is commonly understood to explain multi-generational trauma, it also accounts for multi-generational wisdom. By reflecting on his past, Betzalel was able to tap into the wisdom of Adam, which enabled him to understand how to do his work and build the future.

Perhaps we can bridge the worlds of Mir and Izhbitz with Rav Jonathan Sacks, he writes: 

“The redemptive self does not live in the moment, it lives in the future made possible by the present, and in the story that reveals itself only in retrospect.”8

In other words, Rav Sacks is emphasizing the importance of looking beyond the present moment and considering how our actions and choices today will impact our future selves. The "story" of our lives is something that is revealed gradually over time, and it is only through reflection and introspection that we can fully appreciate the journey we have been on and the progress we have made towards our goals. 

As the Izhbitzer explains, Shabbos serves as a time for individuals to reflect on how their actions are affecting themselves, their communities, and their relationship with Hashem. Rather than seeking short-term pleasure, it is a time to consider the long-term consequences of one's actions. For instance, while indulging in too much sugar may provide immediate enjoyment, it can ultimately harm one's body. A wise person thinks beyond momentary satisfaction and considers their overall well-being.

Moreover, when making decisions, individuals should consider not only their own benefit but also the impact on the community as a whole. Actions that are harmful to the community or against God's will will not bring true benefit. By reflecting on these things, we can then reflect on the past and work to build a better future, as was the case with the construction of the Mishkan.

However, if we fail to contemplate where we came from and how our actions are affecting ourselves and those around us, we cannot hope to have the Mishkan - a symbol of the future - in our midst. Therefore, the role of the Mishkan, Shabbos, and each individual is the same: take a moment to pause and reflect on our foundations and where we are building further. By doing so, we can lead more perfected lives and ultimately achieve tikkun.

As we yearn for the building of the third Beis Hamikdash and the arrival of the era of Mashiach, let us take a few moments each day to pause and reflect on why we are doing what we are doing, whether our actions align with the Ratzon Hashem, and how they impact ourselves and those around us. In doing so, we can pave the way towards a brighter future.

Wishing you a meaningful Shabbos,

Shui

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Thanks to my brother Tzvi Hirsch for assisting me with this post and some of the translations.

Did you ever wonder why we end Shabbos with a passuk from Megillas Esther, but we don’t make havdala from Purim?

I can’t say that I’ve been losing sleep over it, but it has been on my mind for some time. So, in order to get some clarity, I went on a deep journey with the help of teachings of Shira Smiles, Michal Horowitz, Rav Dov Winston and Rav Aryeh Cohen.

Let’s start off with some insight into what Shabbos could mean to us with the exploration of Friday night Kiddush.

The first part of kiddush are passukim from the second perek of Bereshis, of which, the last few words are “Asher Bara Elokim La’asos”. One might wonder why the passuk doesn’t end with Elokim - That HaShem created. What is the la’asos coming to add? There is so much that it adds, but for the purpose of this dvar Torah, I’m quoting the Chizkuni who says that La’asos is simply L’taken, to fix.

Rebbitzin Shira Smiles explains the concept further:

“When Hashem created Adam, He breathed into him his soul and clothed him in a …

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Tezaveh 5786 Bigdei Kehunah For Extra Ordinary And Ordinary Jews

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This past week I had the opportunity to be at the Shalosh Seudas tish of Rav Yitzchak Meir Morgenstern in Yerushalayim. Being in the presence of an Ish Kadosh was certainly a surreal experience. One of the interesting things I noticed was that the Rebbe wears a white bekeshe on Shabbos. Now this may seem typical of Rebbes and Mekubalim, but for someone whose every move is calculated and is obsessed with kedusha, I was curious as to why he chose to wear white. I decided to try to understand the significance of wearing white on Shabbos.

Until now, the people I know who wear white on Shabbos, share a certain Tzfat vibe. Perhaps trying to mimic the custom of mekubalim of old to wear white for Shabbos. It is something that seemingly did not fully survive the move into modern life. As I learned more about this enigmatic minhag, I realized that I was missing the point and how it is wholly integrated with the theme of our parashah, the bigdei kehunah.

The western world has an oft quoted idiom …

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Terumah 5786 Grasping The Ungraspable

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This week’s parashah is deeply instructional, yet confounding. It discusses the requirements for the Mishkan, with the central items including the Aron, Menorah, Shulchan, Kerashim, Mizbe’ach, and the coverings of the Mishkan.

As I reviewed the parashah, two questions stood out. One is asked by virtually everyone, and the other is asked by virtually no one.

The parashah begins with the mitzvah of terumah, however the wording is strange:

וְיִקְחוּ לִי תְּרוּמָה — “They should take for Me a donation.”

A bit later the purpose becomes clear when Hashem commands that they make Him a Mikdash, “so that I may dwell amongst them.”

There are 2 questions that are asked by the meforshim.

First, why does the Torah say, “Tell Bnei Yisrael to take for Me gifts”? Hashem is instructing Moshe to collect donations, and it seems it should say, “Tell Bnei Yisrael to give Me gifts.”

Second, why does the Torah say, “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them” (ושכנתי בתוכם)? It seems it should s…

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Mishpatim 5786 The Ascent Of Coming Down

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Our downstairs neighbors have a pet cat that seems to be engaged in a mostly futile attempt to bring home the neighborhood pigeons for dinner. The pigeons fly higher and the cat is left perched on our porch, or sometimes even on the porch above us, trying to figure out how to get back down. That is usually when a small rescue mission begins.

After this happened a number of times, I started to wonder why we talk so much about climbing, but so little about coming back down? We praise ascent and romanticize growth, yet the real challenge may not be the climb itself. The real problem may be getting stuck, like that cat, scrambling upward with intensity and then realizing there is no graceful way back down.

David HaMelech writes in Tehillim1, מי־יעלה בהר ה׳ ומי יקום במקום קדשו, “Who will ascend the mountain of Hashem, and who will stand in His holy place?” The Shem MiShmuel2, citing the Maggid of Kozhnitz, explains that while ascending the mountain of Hashem may seem like the achievement, the …

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Yisro 5786 Make Space For The Light

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How many times do I find myself doomscrolling through social media and losing track of time? After a while I realized that I have an unhealthy obsession with news and anything that piques my curiosity. I catch myself feeling that it’s almost as if being a responsible person means being emotionally plugged into the entire planet. Then, I realize that this need to know creates an information bank, but doesn’t necessarily create wisdom. More often, it simply generates anxiety, tension and the need to chase the next hit of dopamine.

This week, in a shiur with my mentor, Rav Yehoshua Gerzi, we spoke about the concept of daas. Daas is many things, but at its simplest level, it’s intentional thinking. It’s the awareness that fills the space between stimulus and response. We discussed how thoughts, feelings, and emotions are not the same as our neshama; they’re the domain of the nefesh. Daas is the conscious choice of what you let into your space. It’s the ability to live inside your own life …

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Beshalach 5786

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After the miraculous crossing of the Yam Suf, Bnei Yisrael began their journey through the midbar. Shortly after, the nation complained of hunger and Hashem sent them angelic food from heaven: the manna. Each day, they gathered exactly what they needed.

This continued all week, until on Friday, the people discovered a double portion. They were surprised and confused, so they approached Moshe. Only then did he inform them that the following day would be a day of rest: “Tomorrow is a day of rest, a holy Shabbos for Hashem. Whatever you wish to bake, bake today…”1. Moshe instructed them not to go out to collect on Shabbos because nothing would fall. This was the first time they were encountering Shabbos as lived reality.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe2 explains that the Jewish people already knew of Shabbos as an idea, a future reality they would one day be commanded to live by. Their confusion stemmed from encountering it in action before hearing it presented as a direct command.

That raises an obvi…

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Bo 5786

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Every home carries invisible signs.

Those signs may appear in our habits, which flow into our way of life. They are also in the memories we create and the values we protect.

We often take these signs for granted. After all, they are invisible. Yet at certain moments it becomes important to notice them and to ask what truly makes a home ours. What do we believe? What patterns shape our days? Is this the life we want our home to reflect? Are we creating the memories we hope will one day define it?

This question stands at the heart of Parashas Bo, when we encounter the mitzvah of the korban Pesach and the command to mark the doorposts with blood.

The Torah tells us some of the intricacies of the korban Pesach:

When slaughtering the lamb or kid for the korban Pesach, the blood must be collected in a basin. Some of that blood is then placed on the two doorposts and on the lintel of the houses in which the korban will be eaten. The Torah explains how the blood will serve as an os, a sign that pr…

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Shemos 5786

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Sefer Bereishis teaches us about the sin of the Etz HaDaas, which sent mankind out of Gan Eden and cut off our access to the Ohr Ein Sof, now the Ohr HaGanuz. From there, the Avos and the Shevatim work to draw that light into our world and guide it back toward tikkun, returning creation to the clarity of before the sin.

In Bereishis, we chased the Ohr Ein Sof as it flashed through beginnings and promises. In Shemos, the light lies dormant, and we learn to live through darkness as refinement brings it back into view.Sefer Shemos enters another exile in Mitzrayim, and then follows the path toward redemption.

One way to contrast Sefer Bereishis and Sefer Shemos is through the difference between the teivah of Noach and the teivah of Moshe.

There are many distinctions between the two, but one detail stands out: how each one was waterproofed. Noach’s teivah was coated with tar on the outside and the inside. Moshe’s teivah was coated with tar only on the outside, and the inside was lined with c…

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Shabbos Vayechi

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We have been learning about the great light, the Ohr Ein Sof, the Ohr hidden with Creation. The Ohr that Noach lacked the vessel to hold, that Avraham carried, that Yitzchak integrated with strength and peace. It is the same Ohr that Yaakov sought through darkness, tasted in moments of clarity, and then met again through concealment. This Ohr does not pass directly from Yaakov to his children, and it is not even given to the seeming heirs, Yehuda and Yosef. Instead Yaakov’s last words act as a prism. They name the vessels that carry the hidden Ohr through concealment, until it refracts as geulah.

Once Yaakov spoke to each shevet about its destiny ,then we see what becomes of this light. The Ohr Ein Sof remains mostly concealed, resting dormant inside the shevatim, until the end of days, a time of absolute darkness. At that time, the dormant traits which Yaakov named will begin to shine. They will each refract the same hidden Ohr in its own way, like a prism, and together they open the …

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Shabbos Vayigash

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Chanukah is over and now we miss the flames that were our most tangible connection to the Ohr HaGanuz. They appear to be gone with their oil used up, yet the light lives on. It moved into our neshamas. Now we need to make sure we do not extinguish that light for the soul of Chanukah stays with us all year round.

Recently, I noticed a tea light starting to flicker out. The wick somehow got dislodged from the little metal piece on the bottom. I tried to straighten it and in the process the flame got extinguished. I tried to relight it by bringing another flame close so it could catch and was unsuccessful. It hit me that some lights do not respond to pressure. They need a different angle, maybe a trimmed wick, fresh air, or patience.

People tend to be like that too. When someone seems far from the Source of light, our instinct is to push, nudge, or flood them with our glow and hope it catches. However the way to keep a candle burning is gentler. The key to success is to clear the draft, wa…

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Shabbos Miketz

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This has been a confusing week. On one hand, we saw darkness and hate in a way that rattled us to our very core. On the other hand, we have been lighting up our homes every night with Chanukah candles. We have been living a week of darkness and light. We have been living a week of reality. Reality keeps moving, and we keep moving with it, as hard as that may be.

This is the message of Parashas Miketz. Yosef shows how to preserve light inside darkness without romanticizing the darkness, while Shabbos shows that light can arrive from Above even when nothing down here feels ready for it.

Previously, we learned the idea that the segments of Yaakov’s life where he spent decades living with Lavan, needing to find the light in the darkness. Then he went back to Canaan, a place of light but beset with shadows and lingering darkness, setting a foundation for his children, primarily Yosef and Yehuda. As discussed, Yosef represents the light that survives the darkness, Yehuda represents the darkne…

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