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.

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 that ‘the clothes make the man’, but we often miss that it is the man who picks the clothes. We pick our clothing to match the tone of the occasion or season for which we are wearing them.

Therefore, the clothing that we wear on Shabbos is a testament to what Shabbos is. Just as the clothing that we wear during the week parallel the clothing of exile.

The custom to wear white on Shabbos seems to have originated with the Arizal. On Erev Shabbos, the Arizal and his students used to put on four white garments corresponding to the four letters of the Shem Hashem, and go out to the fields of Tzfat to welcome in the Shabbos.

Rav Chaim Vital writes in the name of the Arizal that on Shabbos one should wear only white clothing. He adds that the clothing one will wear in Olam Haba resembles what one wore on Shabbos1. Rav Moshe of Premisla writes that the white clothing symbolizes our state of cleanliness from sin in Olam Haba2. The Chemdas Yamim goes further and says that by cleaning one’s clothing for Shabbos, one performs a spiritual cleansing as well3. Daniel HaNavi described Hashem as wearing white at the time of forgiveness4. White becomes the language of selichah, of simplicity, and of ascent, because white is not inward or outward but upward, toward Keter.5

It is fascinating that this custom to wear white, rooted in such lofty ideals, seems to have been set aside for the mekubalim and Tzfat chevre. Many communities honor Shabbos through special clothing without wearing all white. It is of further interest that the Rosh writes plainly that Shabbos clothing are white6, yet his son, the Baal Haturim does not say it as clearly in the Tur. He mentions one should wear special clothing, but he does not mention the white. The silence itself says something. The world of Ohr is a quiet world. Ohr comes when we have the Keli to be mekabel it. It is not for everyone.

In Lecha Dodi, Rav Shlomo Alkabetz centers the pizmon on a yearning for the Geula and a time when it will be a day of all Shabbos. He appears to centralize this on the idea of Ohr and Levushim, light and garments.

He writes7:

— הִתְנַעֲרִי מֵעָפָר קוּמִי
Yerushalayim, Shake yourself off from the dust (of galus and destruction) and stand up!

— לִבְשִׁי בִּגְדֵי תִפְאַרְתֵּךְ עַמִּי
Put on the (“clothes” that you take so much pride in), My people (Bnei Yisrael who are returning);

— יַד בֶּן יִשַּׁי בֵּית הַלַּחְמִי
through the hand of (Mashiach, who comes from the descendants of David), ben Yishai of Beis Lechem,

— קָרְבָה אֶל נַפְשִׁי גְּאָלָהּ
redeem me out of our galus, so that my soul can draw near to You.

Then,in the next stanza, he speaks in the language of clothing.

— הִתְעוֹרְרִי הִתְעוֹרְרִי
Yerushalayim, Wake up! Wake up (from your indifference and apathy caused by our galus!);

— כִּי בָא אוֹרֵךְ קוּמִי אוֹרִי
for the light of (your redemption is coming), arise and shine your light (on us, your children);

עוּרִי עוּרִי שִׁירִי דַּבֵּרִי
Awake! Awake and break out in song (and speech);

— כְּבוֹד יהוה עָלַיִךְ נִגְלָה
because the glory of Hashem’s Presence is revealed (and resting) upon you!

Lecha Dodi is not presenting two separate metaphors. It is presenting one unified claim. Redemption is light and redemption is garments. A human world receives light only through a levush. Rav Shlomo Alkabetz makes that unity explicit by fusing two distinct pesukim: “Hisoreri, hisoreri, kumi Yerushalayim”8 with “Ki va orech, kumi ori”9. The “awakening” we demand of Yerushalayim is bound up with the Ohr that approaches it.

The words themselves hint to the deeper structure. “Hisoreri” is rooted in ער, awakening. “Orech” is rooted in אור, light. The two words sound almost identical, and the distinction is the letter ayin versus alef.

This is where Parashas Tezaveh enters, because Tezaveh is when the Torah teaches us about our clothing, levush as a way to hold Ohr in a holy way.

In the language of Kabbalah, a levush is an interface. It conceals, protects, and at the right moment it reveals. Concealment is not the inverse of revelation. Concealment is what allows revelation to exist in a world that cannot receive infinity directly. It is for this reason that Chazal speak about levushim in reference to the highest spiritual realities.

Even the Ohr Ein Sof “wears” the universe, because a finite world cannot receive infinity without form. A levush does not deny the Ohr, rather it makes it inhabitable.

Rav Joey Rosenfeld once expressed the human side of this with a sentence that clarifies the entire subject. “Our garments convey the divine element within the human being. Garments convey that which is within the garment.” A garment does not only cover. A garment conveys. When the garment is truthful, it transmits what is within. When the garment is a costume, or not truly representative of that which it purports to be clothing, it blocks what is within.

Tezaveh is the Torah teaching how to build a truthful garment.

I would like to recap a bit of a previous post in which I discussed the clothing of Esav and its history, to discuss the history of clothing in the Torah.

The Torah tells us that Hashem clothed Adam and Chavah with “kosnos or,” garments of skin, עור. The Midrash tells us that in the Torah of Rebbe Meir this was written as “kosnos Ohr (אוֹר),” garments of light10. The shift from alef to ayin becomes the spiritual story of humanity. Before the chet Adam, the human being could bear Ohr (אוֹר) as a kind of natural atmosphere. After the chet, the human being moved into a denser regime, a world that required עור, concealment.

The Tikkunei Zohar11 deepens this by speaking about the Torah of Rabbi Meir as “Ohr (אוֹר),” implying that Rabbi Meir’s Torah reflects a memory of the pre-sin state, while our Torah is the Torah of after the sin, a Torah spoken within concealment.12

Similarly, as mentioned the root of עור (skin) is ער (awake). They are both languages of revelation, because skin is the revealed surface, and waking is the revealed self. עור becomes the medium through which something can be revealed in a world that cannot bear direct Ohr (אוֹר).

The question is whether what we see on the surface is real, or just a performance. That question follows us through history.

When Rivkah dressed Yaakov in Esav’s clothes, she did so in order that Yitzchak will respond to what he can sense, as the clothing, being passed down from Adam, represented the ohr of Gan Eden. However, what Rivka realized was that the bracha was not in the clothing, the bracha was in the one wearing the clothing, with the clothing only being a literal levush of the ohr inherent within Yaakov. When Esav wore the clothing, it was merely a misdirection, as it did not represent his inner light. For Esav, it represented the possibility that religiosity could become a costume. When levush aligns with inner truth, it becomes a vessel, however, when it detaches from inner truth, it becomes fraud.

This brings us to Parashas Tezaveh, which describes the garments of the Kohanim, and especially the Kohen Gadol, in meticulous detail. The level of detail is appropriate when detailing a Keli that can hold onto the Ohr Ein Sof.

The Shlah makes this clear, explaining that the Bigdei Kehunah were meant to bring a tikkun for the chet of Adam and to raise Aharon toward the level of Adam before the sin, it is through the clothing that we can retrieve the Ohr.13 The Shlah elaborates that the Kohen Gadol wore a choshen. The word choshen חשן shares the same letters as nachash - נחש. The garment itself becomes a tikkun of the original distortion. The nachash introduced confusion, fracture, and the possibility that the external and internal could split. The choshen becomes a levush designed to heal that split. (It is not for naught that on the Choshen was all the shevatim, to show that we are all parts of the same oneness)

Furthermore, the clothing of the Kohen is called a kesones, which is reminiscent of Adam’s kesones. The Midrash teaches that Moshe wore a white kesones during the miluim, the inauguration of the mishkan.14While not all the bigdei kehuna were white, the white garments were reserved for the most auspicious times, such as for Moshe and on Yom Kippur. White indicates purity and ascent, because the garment is meant to convey truth rather than ego.

The Alter Rebbe explains that Aharon, as Kohen Gadol, serves as a primary conduit of the Ohr Ein Sof to Knesses Yisrael, and that his garments are spiritual “containers” that make this light revealable . The formation of those garments, and the revelation they enable, has three partners. Moshe draws down the berachah from above. The chachmei lev then shape and form that influx with chochmah, giving it structure and intelligibility. Finally, Bnei Yisrael “switch it on” through practical mitzvos, because without concrete deeds the vessel remains conceptual and the light remains dormant.15

In other words, Bigdei Kehunah are not just for the Kohen. They are the visible expression of a national system, where the highest Ohr is drawn down, shaped, and activated. But now the real question is unavoidable: without a standing Mikdash and without the Bigdei Kehunah, how do we draw that same light down into ordinary life?

When Rav Shlomo Alkabetz left Saloniki to make aliyah, he delivered an overarching derashah on Parashas Terumah that emphasized this theme of the Torah of Rabbi Meir as an organizing idea for his worldview. He understood the details of the building of the mishkan and the bigdei kehuna as the Torah’s attempt to restore a human relationship to Ohr (אוֹר) through keilim and levushim. This, he explains is manifested today as a zecher with Tefillin. Tefillin are made of עור. When we wear tefillin we are testifying that we are in a post - chet reality. But we can take the fabric of Galus, and use it to bring אוֹר.

Rav Moshe Cordovero, the prime student of Rav Shlomo Alkabetz, echoes this idea. He writes that the garments of leather עור after the sin are garments of galus, while the garments of Ohr (אוֹר) before the sin are garments of Shabbos and freedom16. The Ramak adds that the alef of Ohr (אוֹר) represents oneness. However, when Adam sinned, kodesh and chol began to blend together, and the Ohr (אוֹר) became עור with an ayin, which represents the seventy nations and the condition of exile. Galus feels scattered and heavy, like being defined from the outside. Geula feels whole and clear, like coming back to yourself.

The ayin of exile is not erased. It is subdued. The leather of the tefillin becomes the instrument through which the alef of Ohr (אוֹר) is reclaimed from within the ayin of exile17.18

However, tefillin is not worn on Shabbos. Which means Shabbos carries its own form of repair.

The Chemdas Yamim teaches that the tikkun for Chet Adam on Shabbos is done by wearing special clothing for Shabbos, and that Shabbos clothing enters the category of special garments grouped with the clothing of Adam, the clothing of the Kohen Gadol, the clothing of God, and the clothing of Mashiach19. Shabbos clothing is not simply special clothing to honor Shabbos, it is a way to bridge into the same spiritual category as Bigdei Kehunah, both of which are levushim that make room for the Shechinah.20

The Midrash makes the bridge between Shabbos and kehuna explicit. We honor Shabbos with food, drink, and clean clothing because Hashem made for Adam kosnos Ohr (אוֹר), and those garments were Bigdei Kehunah21. Bigdei Kehunah and bigdei Shabbos become identified in function. They are garments that allow a human being to stand before the Shechinah.

You see this again at Har Sinai. Before Matan Torah, Bnei Yisrael are told to wash their clothes22, and the Targum reads it as whitening; Rashi23 says their garments were whitened and made fit to receive the Shechinah. Clothing becomes a kind of preparation for revelation, and whiteness becomes a language of readiness. The Gemara even says that talmidei chachamim in Bavel looked like malachim, and Rashi ties that to their white clothing and covered appearance24. Again and again, levush signals a state of being that extends beyond appearance.

At this point we see the structure of Lecha Dodi. Rav Shlomo Alkabetz first tells us that we should shake off the dust of our clothing of Galus, and put on the right clothing since it is through that, that we will merit the Ohr.

Getting back to Lecha Dodi -

We later use the term “Shiri daberi”, which is sourced in Devorah’s “Uri uri dabri shir”25, and Chazal connect that phrase to the return of nevuah26. Nevuah is not merely perception, it is the experience of being present with the Shechinah. The Gemara in Shabbos teaches that Shechinah rests only upon one in joy, and it learns this from Elisha who required music to receive prophecy27. Nevuah and Shechinah become two ways of describing the same contact. If so, “shiri daberi” becomes a plea not only for song, but for the return of Shechinah.

This then leads to the closing of the stanza “Kevod Hashem alayich nigleh,” Kevod Hashem is described in Tanach as a source of illumination. “V’haaretz he’ira mikvodo,” the land is illuminated from His kavod28. Thus Lecha Dodi becomes a plea that Yerushalayim once again enjoy the illumination that radiates from the place of Mikdash, the place where kevod becomes visible in history.

At that point, Shabbos, kehuna, and geulah stop looking like separate themes.

In Parashas Tezaveh, the Torah is giving us an eternal lesson that the world can be clothed in a way that makes it fit for light. It begins with Adam, who moved from kosnos Ohr (אוֹר) to kosnos עור. It continues with Yaakov and Esav, where clothing becomes contested and levush becomes dangerous. It appears again in Tezaveh, where the Torah introduces garments whose entire purpose is alignment, and repair. It is Avodah in its truest form.

“Ki va orech, kumi ori.”
The Ohr is coming. Rise into it.

Watching Rav Morgenstern in his white bekeshe, I understood that the Ohr (אוֹר) of the Shechinah has never left. Each of us can access it when we approach it in a wholesome, truthful way. Then we can wear its levush and on Purim even what is usually reserved for the select few comes out for everyone, as each of us is blessed on that day with a singularly unique Ohr (אוֹר) of our own.29

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 say, “that I may dwell in it,” meaning in the Mishkan.

These questions trouble virtually all commentators, and many answers are offered. A common approach is that, when a person gives with the right mindset and intention, he is receiving more than he is giving. That is why the Torah says “take” rather than “give,” because when they donate to build the Mishkan, they are the ones who gain.

This leads into the second point: Hashem does not say, “I will dwell in it.” He says, “I will dwell among them.” Who is “them”? The answer is the nation. The Mishkan is not for Hashem, since Hashem does not need a physical structure; the Mishkan is for the people, as their way of demonstrating that they are prepared to incorporate Him into their lives.

If you want Hashem to be present in your life, you have to make yourself into a keli, a receptacle. You build the Mishkan not so Hashem can exist there, but so you can become the kind of person and community in which His presence can be revealed. In other words, in order to receive from Hashem, we first have to give. We do that by building a structure that illustrates readiness to receive Hashem’s presence.

This brings me to my next question, which I have not seen asked by anyone.

As part of the instructions for many of the keilim in the Mishkan, are the instructions to create rings and poles (badim) so they could be carried during travel. The Menorah, however, seems to be the exception to this rule.

The Menorah had no badim; in fact, when they traveled, it was placed in a box1. Why is the Menorah different? Why can it not be carried the way the other keilim were carried?

I’d like to share an idea from the Beis Yaakov2 that I think is basic and beautiful, but often overlooked.

He quotes a Zohar3 that teaches a powerful distinction: The effort involved in Torah is such that anyone who wants can merit it, because Hashem grants it. Anyone who wants can receive it without payment.

The Beis Yaakov explains that Hashem relates to each Jew personally in two distinct ways.

Sometimes Hashem gives a gift: a flash of clarity, a quieting of inner noise, a moment in which emunah and purpose feel obvious. This was the case at Matan Torah. Hashem, so to speak, lowered the volume of the world, so we could hear Him. This is Hashem’s initiative, and it comes for free, even though it rarely lasts. What remains is a residue, a spark. In his words, this is “אשתדלותא דקוב״ה למנדע ליה,” the Divine initiative to let a person know.4

Then comes the second stage: “אשתדלותא דקוב״ה דקיימא בעובדא,” a Divine initiative that becomes anchored through action. Here the goal is not another flash of insight, but a kinyan, so that the truth is absorbed into a person’s heart, and even into the body, until it becomes steady and lived. That cannot happen without cost: patience, restraint, effort, and the daily tests life brings.

Whenever there is revelation, a person, in the moment of light, imagines it should remain forever. It does not, yet its imprint remains as a spark of vitality. Hashem wants that spark to create longing and hope, so that, when a person needs to be awakened, he remembers, “I have stood here (in this light) before.”

Within every Jew there is love for Hashem, and the will of the Jew is that everything should be before Hashem. As far as our awareness reaches, we do not protest that reality. What, then, is terumah? Terumah means: take what you were given, and by investing yourself, your time, your money, your attention, your self-control, turn it into something you actually own.

ושכנתי בתוכם means the point was never that Hashem should dwell in a structure. The structure is the training ground for Hashem to dwell in them, inside real people with ordinary lives.

Rav Tzadok5 sharpens the same idea. Torah is meant to light up the heart, והאר עינינו בתורתך, yet to truly merit Torah and its light there is a price of ahavah and yirah. After Matan Torah, the Torah itself is accessible, but for the Torah to become lived (naaseh) - absorbed into the body and behavior, and not only understood (nishma), it requires yirah and ahavah.

He explains that Hashem often begins with ahavah before yirah, giving a person a taste of closeness first; when it becomes our turn to make that closeness last, the work often begins with yirah. That means bending our desires, pushing back the yetzer hara, and choosing Torah again and again until it becomes who we are, and until Hashem makes His dwelling within us.

The Beis Yaakov says this plays out daily through Shema Yisrael. In the morning, a Jew accepts ol malchus Shamayim with mesirus nefesh. That awareness comes easily to the soul, it is ahavah, but the body only holds it when it is translated into action, which is yirah. During the day, in the marketplace of life, Hashem sends distractions and pressures that force a person to resist and choose correctly, and through those acts the morning awareness of Hashem becomes absorbed into the limbs.

Now I would like to return to the Menorah. Aside from lacking badim, there is another anomaly: each of the keilim was built by Betzalel, with the exception of the Menorah.

The Midrash6 tells us that Moshe Rabbeinu struggled in a unique way to understand the construction of the Menorah. Hashem showed it to him in multicolored fire (white, red, black, green), and Moshe still could not grasp it. Hashem even etched it for him on his palm, like a tattoo, and Moshe still could not do it.7 Finally, Hashem told Moshe to throw a piece of gold into the fire, and the Menorah emerged miraculously. (No, this was not an AI spoof.)

What was it that Moshe needed to understand about the Menorah, something he understood about the other keilim, but could not understand here?

I found a hint from Rav Yerucham Levovitz, the mashgiach of Mir. He writes8 that Moshe was able to define the form of each object and its spiritual essence, its neshamah. Regarding the Menorah, however, Moshe could not determine its essence.

The way I understand this is that each keli in the Mishkan served a different purpose. The Aron represented Torah, the Shulchan represented parnassah and brachah, and the Mizbe’ach expressed avodah. The Menorah, by contrast, was a vessel for light itself, a keli for Divine illumination, the Ohr Ein Sof, to be revealed in the world.

The light of the Ohr Ein Sof is not something that can be fully grasped.

It can be portrayed with multicolored fire, it can be shown as a diagram, and one can even hold the image in one’s hand, yet the inner meaning, its neshamah, stays beyond capture. Therefore, Moshe could not create it on his own, because he could not grasp its full essence. When we can understand the essence of something, it becomes ours, and we can carry it and transport it like a possession, like something mastered.

The Menorah, however, represents a light we cannot fully own. It must be protected, mediated, and encased, carried with awe. It travels with us, but not as something we own. It is carried in a box like something precious, like a secret we guard.

That is exactly the Beis Yaakov’s point: the initial light, the revelation, is a gift, but whether it stays with you depends on whether you build further, whether you translate it into action, or you turn the spark into a kinyan. What Moshe found difficult to comprehend was how a Menorah, a physical object, could spread the spiritual light of Hashem to the outside world.

Hashem essentially confirmed Moshe’s hesitation: using physical objects to spread Divine awareness is beyond what we can do on our own. Nonetheless, Hashem wants us to be co-creators with Him. Therefore, He told Moshe to do his part, to cast the gold into the fire, and Hashem would do the rest.

We are given the power from Hashem to transform our material pursuits and possessions into sources of Divine light. Like Moshe, we may wonder how our physical talents or possessions can illuminate the world, yet the Menorah teaches that all Hashem asks is that we cast it into the fire, into the fire of our hearts through effort, sincerity, restraint, love, and consistency. When we bring the fire, Hashem causes the light to rise by itself and to spread.

That is the deeper meaning of Terumah: we take by giving. We build a Mishkan so Hashem can dwell among us, within real people, in ordinary life. When we do that, we merit hashra’as haShechinah.

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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 deeper achievement is “who will stand,” meaning, who can remain there without falling.

He explains that every person lives in a pattern of ratzo v’shov, running and returning. Sometimes the mind is clear and illuminated, and sometimes it is the opposite. In Kabbalistic terms, we move between mochin d’gadlus and mochin d’katnus, expansive and constricted states of consciousness.

Moshe Rabbeinu was the rare exception, always in a state of mochin d’gadlus. He was always prepared for nevuah. The rest of us are built differently.

At first glance, that sounds discouraging. Are we excluded from “who will stand in His holy place?” The Shem MiShmuel flips the question.

Moshe Rabbeinu lived in a constant state of clarity, while most of us do not, and we are not meant to. Even the nevi’im (aside from Moshe Rabbeinu) had times of mochin d’katnus, which is a kind of “fall,” and that pattern is part of how the world works, for our benefit. As Shlomo HaMelech wrote, כי שבע  יפול צדיק וקם, “Seven times a righteous person falls and gets up”3. When a person is high, he can feel far from the coarse details of life. The descent is part of the mission, not a bug in the system.

Rav Kook writes4 that this is indeed the natural state of the tzaddik: when his light dims and his faith in himself weakens, he can feel spiritually exhausted and assume that he is no different from everyone else. That feeling itself is part of the test. The tzaddik must remember that the very shape of his soul is different, built for constant yearning for holiness and deveikus, and that other souls draw nourishment from his larger neshamah. Even if he falls “seven times,” the fall does not erase who he is. The challenge is to hold on to faith in the essential holiness of his soul and to say with a full heart: Hashem has set aside the chasid for Himself; Hashem will hear when I call.5

Rav Joey Rosenfeld explains6 that mochin d’katnus is not the absence of consciousness and not the loss of the soul. It is the soul revealing itself through constriction. The light is always present. When it feels absent, it is only because it is concealed.

He adds that if I believe katnus means distance from Hashem, then escaping it requires going far beyond myself to find Him, and hope often slips away. However, if I know that katnus is still Hashem, then leaving myself is unnecessary. Remembering is enough. I never lost Hashem. I only forgot His presence.

The human being was created to elevate sparks of holiness from every layer of reality, including the lower layers. The “down” brings you close enough to gather what you could not reach from above, and when you rise again to the higher levels of mochin d’gadlus, you carry those sparks with you. In that sense, the descent is necessary for the ascent.

The question becomes: what helps a person remember, and how do we transition from constriction (katnus) to expansiveness (gadlus) without forcing it?

One of the most accessible pathways is shirah. Song can bypass the narrow passage of ordinary speech (katnus).7 It reaches the heart and the mind without detouring through argument or analysis. It opens more than it persuades. It creates space where space had previously been closed. In that sense, it is the song of the birds.

Rav Pinchas of Koretz writes8 that birds are called ba’alei shirah, the possessors of song, in a way other creatures are not. Shirah is what emerges when something lifts itself from the ground toward the sky.

The Sfas Emes9 explains that we were given the ability to rise above nature toward Hashem, and that this strength comes from the mitzvah of tzitzis. He explains that the Torah’s word for corner is kanaf, the same word used for a wing.

With that in mind, it makes sense that the cat is chasing birds.

Birds are fascinating because they live in the middle. They can rise, and they can also settle, belonging to the sky and the ground at once. Birds become a symbol of ratzo v’shov, a life that moves upward without losing the ability to return.

Rav Nosson of Breslov writes10 that birds occupy an intermediate category between fish and animals. Fish were created from water and animals from dust, while birds were created from mud, a mixture of water and dust, and that in-between quality mirrors their spiritual role in the world.

Rav Nosson goes further and connects that “in-between” quality to inner life. Birds stand between the category of human beings, associated with da’as (conscious knowledge), and the category of animals, associated with pure instinct, which is why he links the “spirit” in a bird’s wings to the “spirit of speech.” The point is not biology. The point is that wings represent a kind of inner lift that stays connected to the ground, and that is exactly what a person is seeking when he moves through katnus and looks for a way back into da’as.

This idea puts into words a familiar tension. We want to rise, transcend, and live in the realm of meaning, vision, inspiration, and da’as. But we also need to live. Everyday life still requires a home, work, and the routines and responsibilities that fill a day. If we only climb, we can end up trapped on a ledge, proud of our height but resentful of our life.

Rav Nosson11 connects this question of ascent and landing to something surprisingly practical. He understands the pasuk mentioned above, מי יעלה בהר ה׳ ומי יקום במקום קדשו, as a question about da’as itself: who can enter that clarity, and who can remain there. He then points to the answer the next pasuk gives: נקי כפים ובר לבב, anyone who has clean hands and a pure heart, because through a pure heart come clean hands. In other words, true da’as is not only a state of intentional thought. It moves downward into the body, into action, into what you touch and what you build. Holiness is not only ascent. Standing in it means letting it shape your hands and your everyday life.

To understand this concept further, consider the difference between a ladder and a trampoline. A ladder is linear, taking you up or down. A trampoline works differently: it takes what is down, converts it into energy, and sends you upward, only so you can return again.It creates a rhythm that can look like escapism at first glance, even when it is actually the opposite.

In life, we do need to climb, grow spiritually, and also, we need to come back down to earth. We need to bring the spiritual into the physical and then lift the physical back toward the spiritual. We need to become something like a trampoline. Or, to use Rav Nosson’s imagery, we need to become like a bird.

This week we read Parashas Shekalim, which adds a communal and practical frame to this entire discussion. Chazal12 describe it as something that “lifts the head” of Bnei Yisrael each year. That lifting means that by counting each person, we grant dignity. Each Jew is being told: you matter and you will not get lost in the crowd. Rav Tzadok13 explains further that each soul has its own inner point and its own irreplaceable letter in the Torah of Klal Yisrael.

However, a spiritual lifting can also awaken judgment. That is why the parashah pairs the elevation of being counted with the giving of the half-shekel, which serves as a kofer nefesh, a kind of protective ransom. Hashem shows Moshe a “coin of fire” to teach that even something as physical as money has a spiritual root, and that when it is used properly it can protect what is uplifted from collapsing into a fall. Parashas Shekalim teaches how to ascend without breaking, because it teaches how to return and rise again.

The Torah is sometimes described as wings. When we do mitzvos, they become our wings, carrying us higher without disconnecting us from the world we actually live in.

Rav Nosson writes14 that the words of a tzaddik are like holy wings, with which a person can glide and soar within the “waters of da’as.” The image is clear. A person can feel stuck in katnus, weighed down and unable to rise, and then a word of truth, spoken at the right time, allows him to rise up. Wings make movement possible inside the world.

That is where the difference between song and speech becomes practical. Song lifts up the heart above the tightness of the moment and reminds a person that he is larger than what he is currently feeling. Speech grounds that uplifting feeling into something that can be held. It names what is happening. It gives shape to the experience, so the person can return to his life with actionable clarity rather than crashing back down.

Shirah can bring you up, while speech can help you land, and together they create a rhythm a person can live with, rising without escape and returning without collapse.

Before the advent of airplanes, the Leshem wrote that it would be extraordinary if human beings could fly like birds, because the closer the neshamah comes to its Source in the heavens, the more it can understand15. He is describing more than a physical ability. He is describing a shift in awareness where height changes what you can see, and spiritual “height” changes what you can understand.

Rav Kook sharpens this idea16. He does not only describe a higher altitude. He describes a higher way of seeing. He invites a person to look at the world and train his eye to notice the light of the Shechinah throughout the universe. He explains that this light flows through every corner of existence, through the spiritual and the material alike, through what the eyes see and what the inner eye can learn to see. A person should treat this as reality, not as a distant theory or a dim “plan” projected from far away. That is why Rav Kook speaks in the language of knowing. Know the reality you are living in, yourself and your world, and learn to find the source of life within, above, and around you.

He then adds a warning that feels painfully modern. Names, slogans, and letters can swallow a person’s soul. Words are precious, and they are necessary, yet they are meant to be held in your hands, not to hold you. When the mind becomes cramped, the light grows faint. When the heart expands, love returns to its root, with strength and gentleness, and the Infinite becomes newly present inside what a person can grasp.

That is the introduction to his oft-quoted call:

בן אדם,
עלה למעלה, עלה.
עלה למעלה, עלה, בן אדם.
עלה, למעלה עלה.
כי כח עז לך,
יש לך כנפי רוח,
כנפי נשרים אבירים.
אל תכחש בם,
פן יכחשו לך.
דרש אותם – דרוש, בן אדם,
וימצאו לך מיד.

Keep going up, because you have strength. You have wings of spirit, wings like mighty eagles. Do not deny them, or they will deny you. Seek them, and they will be found.

There is a song that tells a simple parable about a dove who is given wings from beneath Hashem’s throne. At first, the wings feel heavy, almost like they are too much to carry, and the dove experiences them as a burden instead of a gift. The turning point comes when the dove understands that wings only feel heavy when they are treated like weight. When wings are used for what they were made for, they lift you. As the song puts it: “The little dove- that’s you and me, and the Torah- that’s our wings...” 17

That is exactly what Rav Kook is saying. Rise. Seek your wings. Rise in a way that still leaves you able to land, because even the bird needs a place to land.

In the zemiros of Shabbos we speak about the yonah that found manoach, rest. Many understand this as the dove that Noach sent from the teivah, which finally found a place to settle. Some even connect that “rest” to Shabbos, though the timing is not explicit in the Torah.18

Others understand this differently and connect it to Yonah HaNavi, who found a strange kind of stillness in the belly of the fish, or who finally found rest after being cast out of the fish (on Shabbos) and returning to his mission.

Rav Moshe Dovid Vali offers another layer. He explains that “yonah” refers to the Shechinah19, and that throughout the week of galus, the Shechinah does not have rest20. The Vilna Gaon, in his commentary to Sefer Yonah, writes that “yonah” is a name for the neshamah, and that the neshamah yeseirah of Shabbos allows a person to rest. Yonah matzah bo manoach.

There are times to rise like a bird, and there are also times to land. There are times to settle and be fully present on earth. We must remain aware that when we turn spirituality into perpetual flight, the very vessel that can hold it begins to weaken, and we ultimately lose our grasp of it.

Now what does all this have to do with Parashas Mishpatim? The answer lies in the juxtaposition between the spiritual high of Parashas Yisro and Kabbalas HaTorah, and the down-to-earth, day-to-day halachos of Mishpatim.

Rav Kook explains that the experience at Har Sinai does not end with lofty revelation. It flows directly into the “ordinary” world of civil law. The mishpatim are not merely social order, like general human justice. For Bnei Yisrael, they are mitzvos meant to draw human consciousness upward from da’ato shel adam toward da’as elyon. That is why they must be “set before them” specifically as Torah, and not simply as a functioning legal system. Only within that framework does a legal system become a vehicle of kedushah. Then even damages, loans, business ethics, and property disputes become part of the same revelation that thundered at Sinai, moving toward an ideal future in which the means and the goal merge, and “the taste of the tree becomes like the fruit.”

Rav Kook adds a principle that brings this full circle. He distinguishes between matan Torah and kabbalas haTorah, between the giving of Torah from da’as elyon and the receiving of Torah through da’ato shel adam. Torah enters the world through that human side, through interpretation and articulation, and it becomes real “according to these words,” ״כי על פי הדברים האלה כרת ה׳ אתך ברית״ 2122

That is precisely what Mishpatim is. After the lightning of Parashas Yisro, comes the work of translation. Torah of Sinai descends into everyday halachah, retaining the Har Sinai experience.23

The highest da’as elyon remains present, even as Torah is received through da’ato shel adam and applied in the most practical details of daily life.24

This is the transition from the blazing heights of Kabbalas HaTorah to the daily responsibilities of lived halachah. The Torah is teaching us what it means to live as a Jew, and the secret to our survival is the integration of Torah values with kedushah into everyday life.

Spiritual growth has to survive contact with real life. It has to move from inspiration into action and from the heights into the place where mitzvos actually happen.

The cat will climb, the pigeons will fly, and we will keep doing the harder work: rising when we can, returning when we must, and bringing what we gained above into the obligations waiting below.

Real wings do not help you escape. They help you return with something real, because the point is what happens after you land.25

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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 rather than getting pulled into the noise of the world.

This theme is discussed often in our chabura. This week, however, Rav Gerzi said something that struck a nerve. We live with the belief that we need to know everything happening in the world. But we really only need to know what’s going on with ourselves, our homes, and our communities. We don’t need to get sucked into the information vacuum. We do need to know our space and what belongs in it. We need to focus on being aware of what’s within us instead of everything outside us.. It’s about knowing what belongs to you—your inner world, your people, your mission—and letting the rest stay “out there” without trying to carry it.

I immediately responded, “That’s what Yisro did when he divided the court system into cohorts.”

Yisro saw that Moshe was serving as judge for the entire nation and realized this system was unsustainable. People were waiting all day, and it was creating a burden for everyone. As great as Moshe was, he couldn’t be everywhere or do everything. Even he needed to step back from being the center of it all. Without structure, everything would burn out.

Rav Moshe Dovid Vali explains that at first, Yisro considered a darker possibility: maybe Moshe wanted to keep all the authority for himself, like a leader who refuses to delegate. But Yisro Knew Moshe was not seeking honor, he was humble and mission-driven. So he assumed there must be a real reason and investigated.

When Moshe realized that Yisro suspected him of hoarding authority, he clarified that this was never about ego. People came to him for necessary reasons. First, to “seek God,” because only Moshe had prophetic access. Second, for legal disputes, because the people trusted Moshe’s Ruach HaKodesh to yield truth. Third, he was constantly receiving and teaching new laws. These weren’t burdens that Moshe sought, rather they were part of the Divine leadership role assigned to him.

Yisro accepted that Moshe wasn’t doing this for power. Still, Yisro showed Moshe that not every matter requires prophecy. Legal disputes can be handled by others. If only prophets could judge, the system could never function. It’s enough for judges to be wise and righteous, then Divine assistance will guide their rulings.

Rav Vali explains that Moshe must retain certain roles: direct prophecy, seeking God on behalf of individuals, and teaching the chukim and Torah, which require prophetic depth. Moshe must also guide them in derech mussar, the moral path, which is the foundation of Torah observance. Rav Vali points out that when mussar weakens, the sitra achra enters through self-indulgence and shallow speech, leading them away from mitzvos.

Those set aside, ordinary legal disputes should be delegated. A layered court system prevents bottlenecks and burnout. Moshe remains essential, but he doesn’t need to handle everything alone. He appoints judges, because only he can recognize who is truly fit, with clarity and Ruach HaKodesh.

Rav Vali adds that once Moshe isn’t overloaded, he becomes a better vessel for Divine instruction. When the container is calm and clear, it can hold new light. That’s why Yisro concludes: If you do this—and God commands you—you will be able to stand and go home in peace.

Yisro’s advice starts out as management tips and then turns into a model of daas. The steps can be listed as: delegate, create layers, define your space, and make room for the light to dwell. The recipe for success and shalom is structure. Everything and everyone needs their space. You can have a one-man band—but a one-man nation is unsustainable.

As the week went on, this theme kept replaying in my mind. We need to be informed, but not consumed. I started adjusting my own life, letting go of things I didn’t need, that were just taking up precious mental space. I realized then, this wasn’t just a story about courts, rather it’s the heart of Parashas Yisro.

The core event of the parsha is Matan Torah. It was a unique spiritual experience, perhaps the most powerful moment in history with Divine revelation on full display. Yet, the people stepped back. After Hashem spoke, they moved away and said to Moshe: “You speak to us... but let not God speak to us, lest we die”1.

This awareness was Daas. It was a moment where we understood our space. Bnei Yisrael realized that while Moshe could stand directly in the fire, they couldn’t. They asked for a boundary, a container, so the light would be able to be appropriately retained in them and not destroy them.

Before we move into the Aseres HaDibros, I want to return to an idea I shared in an earlier post, because it sets up everything that comes next.

If the Torah has 613 mitzvos, why did Hashem give only ten at Sinai? Why not all of them at once?

Rav Reuven Sasson explains: what we received at Har Sinai wasn’t the complete Torah as it would later unfold. It was the concentrated energy, the spiritual DNA that contains the capacity to unfold Torah through history, and through Torah to reveal the development of the world hidden within it.

Think about a human blueprint. One genetic code can express itself through countless faces, temperaments, and lives. Torah works the same way. The Ten Commandments are the spiritual blueprint from which all 613 mitzvos expand.

The Ten Commandments represent more than a list. They function as the core spiritual DNA that carries the koach to expand into the rest of Torah as history unfolds. Each dibbur reveals another foundational boundary, another dimension of spiritual placement. In the lens I am seeing it, each one teaches a version of the same root skill. Knowing your place. That’s what creates holy space.2

The Aseres HaDibros teach us how to live with boundaries, avoid being consumed by ego or comparison, and remain anchored in holiness.

If you look inside a Sefer Torah, the Aseres HaDibros are surrounded by extra space. It teaches us that the space is just as important as the commandment.

It reminds me of the famous story of Rabbi Moshe Shapiro who was once giving a lecture when one of the students set up a tape recorder that paused during silence. When Rabbi Shapiro noticed this, he remarked that the pauses are there for a purpose, the pauses allow the teachings to be internalized. They are Torah too.3

The way I see the Aseres HaDibros through this lens is as follows:

Each commandment teaches us a different way to protect and inhabit our space—with Hashem, with others, and with ourselves.

1. Anochi Hashem

What Hashem is telling us: I am the Creator. You are the creation.
How we reflect that: Let go of the illusion of control. Your role is not to run the universe. Humility opens the space for God to dwell. Yes, hishtadlus matters, but obsession drains the soul.

2. Lo Yihyeh Lecha, no other gods

What Hashem is telling us: Don’t let anything else occupy My space.
How we reflect that: We need to recognize and respect our inherent self-worth. Our identity should be grounded in who we are, not dictated by fleeting trends or popular opinion. The key is to know yourself and maintain a clear focus on the relationship between God, yourself, and others. Do not elevate others to the position of God; always remember Who is truly in charge of the world.

3. Lo Tisa – Don’t take God’s name in vain

   What Hashem is telling us: Don’t profane sacred space.
   How we reflect that: Speak with integrity. Don’t use holiness for personal status or manipulation or to serve your agenda. Words shape the spiritual atmosphere.
   

4. Zachor Et Yom HaShabbos – Remember the Shabbos
   What Hashem is telling us: Make time holy.
   How we reflect that: You don’t need to be productive all the time. Shabbos is a pause that creates presence. Time becomes space when we honor it. When we don’t, time controls us.

5. Kabeid Et Avicha V’et Imecha – Honor your father and mother
   What Hashem is telling us: Respect the roots of your space.
   How we reflect that: You didn’t start here. See yourself in the context of generations. Gratitude expands your sense of place. Realize the bigger picture, not just the here and now.
   

6. Lo Tirtzach, Do not murder
   What Hashem is telling us: Every life holds sacred, inherent value.
   How we reflect that: We must not erase or override others, whether physically or emotionally. This means respecting personal boundaries, holding back anger and ego that seek to “delete” a person, and refusing to play God with someone else’s journey.
   

7. Lo Tinaf – Do not commit adultery

What Hashem is telling us: Intimacy belongs in protected space.
How we reflect that: Recognize your proper place, honor what’s sacred, and resist impulses. Stay loyal to your commitments, as boundaries are what shield love from becoming self-centered.

8. Lo Tignov – Do not steal
   What Hashem is telling us: Don’t take what isn’t yours.
   How we reflect that: That includes time, energy, and emotional bandwidth. Respect what belongs to others—tangibly and intangibly. The core message is to trust that the portion designated for you is indeed your portion.
   

9. Lo Ta’aneh Ve’rei’acha Eid Shaker – Don’t bear false witness
   What Hashem is telling us: Don’t distort shared space. Adhere strictly to reality and reject baseless speculation.
   How we reflect that: Falsehood corrupts reality. Online or offline, honesty sustains the invisible space between people. Engaging in the spread of falsehood, even seemingly minor acts like liking a misleading social media post or participating in the rumor mill, amplifies the lie and elevates the status of the deception. The corruption of truth is a fundamental assault on the integrity of society itself, as truth is the essential framework that holds it together.
   

10. Lo Tachmod – Do not covet
    What Hashem is telling us: “Stop living in someone else’s life.” Their mission is their mission. Your mission is yours.
    How we reflect that: Everyone has a pekel. Comparison steals joy and peace, and it also steals identity. When you measure yourself through other people, you abandon your own purpose in creation. We like to think that the grass is greener on the other side, but really we all have our pekel. Our job is to focus on ourselves, on our joy and inner peace. When you compare yourself to others you are committing spiritual identity theft and you abandon your own purpose in creation.

Immediately after the Aseres HaDibros, Hashem tells Moshe a few additional mitzvos :

• Don’t make images of celestial beings4

• Don’t use a sword to fashion the Mizbeiach5

• Use a ramp, not steps, on the Mizbeiach6

At first glance, these mitzvos feel almost random. Why are davka these mitzvos listed and why are they listed here after the revelation at Har Sinai?

The meforshim explain that these mitzvos teach the quality and depth of what it means to receive Torah. Consider this: three of the Aseres HaDibros warn against idolatry, murder, and adultery. These are universal foundations, already binding on humanity through the seven Noachide laws. So why highlight them at Har Sinai, of all places?

The answer lives in what comes next. Moshe tells the people, in effect, that Jewish life takes the basics and raises them to a higher level of observance and sensitivity. While the overt sins are clearly forbidden, even their subtle manifestations are off-limits. The new mitzvos relate to the domains of the cardinal prohibitions.

Regarding idolatry the Torah also warns against creating even symbolic forms, including images of celestial beings. For murder, the Torah also removes the tools of violence from the place of avodah. The Mizbeach represents life, repair, and closeness, so its stones are shaped in a way that reflects that. In terms of physical immorality, the Torah also guides us away from behavior that carries a flavor of immodesty. Rashi explains that steps create a certain kind of exposure, and a ramp preserves tznius.

Hashem uses the placement of these specific mitzvos to indicate and acknowledges that even after receiving the Torah, the struggle against idolatry, violence, and immorality continues. This serves as a reminder for us that receiving the Torah elevates every aspect of life to refine even their faintest traces. Torah means living with more space, more awareness, and more kedushah in the details.

Chazal teach that on the first day of Creation, Hashem made a light so bright it reached from one end of the world to the other. But Hashem saw how that light could be misused, so He concealed it and saved it “for the righteous in the future”7. This is the Ohr HaGanuz, the hidden light, a trace of the Ohr Ein Sof. A person can crave that kind of light but a person can also get hurt by it.

When we try to see everything, hold everything, and carry the whole world inside our minds, we take in light without building a vessel. The result looks spiritual, and it feels frantic. Light passes through you, and it never settles inside you. To carry light in this world, we need inner boundaries. We need daas. We need a sense of what belongs with us, and what belongs out there.

When Bnei Yisrael asked Moshe to be their intermediary, that request expressed spiritual maturity. They understood something real about themselves. They had acquired daas.

In the Aseres HaDibros, Hashem gave us a receptacle for day-to-day life, to hold light without being burned by it.

This theme is found throughout Tanach. The sale of Yosef shows what happens when a family loses clarity about roles, boundaries, and purpose. Nadav and Avihu had holy intentions, but they went too far. Korach argued that everyone could be holy, and he erased the space that allows holiness to live inside a system. When everyone claims the same role, the structure collapses. The story repeats again and again, from Uzzah to Shaul to Achan, as people reach for what feels close and right, and cross the line that keeps the world intact.

When we lose our place, history becomes painful fast.

In our lives, this temptation often shows up as information. We crave for more context, more updates, more awareness. However, what we really need is a stronger vessel: one built with Daas and knowing what is mine as well as what is not mine. Through learning how to live with contentment inside my space. Daas, is our spiritual goal and that is the ability to live fully inside your space: your mind, your home, your community. It’s trusting that Hashem runs the rest.

In order to be holy, we need to relate to our experience with awareness, and pause to ensure the space is creating a real, intentional life. Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is close the feed and go back to your life.

This was Yisro’s message: Don’t try to do it all. When Moshe accepted that advice, he didn’t become less, instead he became a better kli for more ohr. He thrived with space.
That is also the meaning of the space around the Aseres HaDibros in the Sefer Torah. Take your space and fill it with kedushah. Then the hidden light becomes livable, you become a vessel for light which iscapable of holding the spiritual DNA of the Aseres HaDibros that keeps unfolding through history, and through us.

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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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Shabbos Vayeshev

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Yaakov’s encounter with the darkness inside the light extends beyond himself. The Torah carries this pattern into the lives of his children and, through them, into the unfolding of Jewish history.

The Beis Yaakov1 notes that when the parashah says אלה תולדות יעקב, יוסף, “these are the generations of Yaakov: Yosef,” it speaks about more than genealogy. The hidden depths of a parent’s heart emerge either through their deeds or through their children. Yosef stands as the visible manifestation of Yaakov’s inner world. Everything that lies most inward in Yaakov, his clarity, his truth, his capacity to live only through fully clarified actions, enters history through Yosef. When Yosef is later torn away from him, Yaakov loses a beloved son and with that loss, he watches the very structure of his own spiritual life appear to collapse. Even then, the Beis Yaakov explains, Yaakov returns to what he learned in the house of Lavan and serves God in a darkness where his promises seem broken and any …

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This is an idea I was thinking about over Shabbos and felt the need to write down and share.

Yaakov splits his family into two machanos. On paper, nothing changes: same people, same number. So what actually shifted?

My local Rav, Rav Jeff Wohlgelernter, explained that this became the template for Jewish history.

Klal Yisrael is one people living in at least two camps. Some in Eretz Yisrael, some in chutz la’aretz. When one camp is in danger, the other carries the story. We are never stuck in one place; Hashem always leaves another door, another camp, open.

This is where it gets uncomfortable:
Recently there has been a toxic obsession with guilting people into moving to Eretz Yisrael, whether because of antisemitism, or ruchnius, or whatever the slogan of the week is. Yaakov’s two machanos remind us that Klal Yisrael has always existed in more than one place, and that this is part of the design, not a failure of faith.

Living in Eretz Yisrael is a tremendous zechus, but it is not for every…

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Rav Eliyahu Dessler once showed up to a lecture with a large white oak tag that had a single black dot in the center. He asked the students, “What do you see?” They answered immediately. A black dot. Rav Dessler responded, “Do you not see all the white around it?” His point was simple. Make sure to see the white part of life, the clear and shining candle of life.

The story of Yaakov Avinu is fascinating. Each time he seemed to reach for perfection, for shleimus, something pulled him back. His life hints that his mission was to reveal how growth continues even when life presents endless excuses to remain stagnant.

Two great spiritual movements shape Yaakov’s life. They stand in clear contrast: last week’s parashah, Vayetzei, and this week’s parashah, Vayishlach.

In Vayetzei, Yaakov left his home and entered the uncertainty of exile. He was alone, afraid, penniless, and unprotected. Yet in that very darkness he was forced to search for light. Leah became his guide, teaching him how to unco…

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Shabbos Within The Darkness

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There are times that Shabbos arrives after a productive and fulfilling week. Other times, we suddenly find ourselves on erev Shabbos after dark, stressful or frustrating days. How are we meant to tap into the light of Shabbos from within the darkness?

The answer might be found in the contrast that becomes apparent in this week’s parsha, Vayeitzei. While Avraham first received light before entering any darkness, Yaakov entered concealment and only afterward was shown light1.

Another contrast between Yaakov and his grandfather Avraham is how they journeyed. Avraham set out on a journey toward the light, while Yaakov seemed to turn away from it. Avraham heard “Lech lecha,” a call to go forward. Yaakov began with “Vayeitzei,” he went out.

The purpose of Avraham’s journey was clear. “Lech lecha” means ‘go to yourself’, discover who you are. Yaakov’s journey seems the opposite as he was not moving toward something. Rather, he was leaving something behind, fleeing from his brother. Vayeitzei is …

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Note: For simplicity, all sources and footnotes are included in the attached PDF.

The Scent Of Gan Eden And The Clothes We Wear On Shabbos Toldos 5786

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Every Erev Shabbos, we take a moment and simply open our closet, choose different clothing, and change. The people around us see a jacket or a dress, while the Torah sees a levush.

Which leads us to the quiet question:

Who is actually wearing these clothes, and whose story are they telling?

Fork in the Road: Who Inherits the Light

After Avraham Avinu’s passing, the story of the Ohr Ein Sof changes direction. The spotlight turns inward, and the great movement of Avraham teaching the world about monotheism pauses. We stop searching for students, and begin searching for heirs. Who will carry the Ohr forward?

Will it be Yaakov or Esav?

Avraham spent his life turning outward with his tent open on all four sides, as his mission was to spread light. Had Sarah not intervened, Avraham would have handed that ohr to Yishmael. Ironically, Yitzchak, who grew up in that atmosphere of outward chesed would have continued alon…

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Shabbos Bringing The Light Inside Chayei Sara 5786

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Having explored Shabbos through the worlds of Atzilus and Ohr Ein Sof, this week I would like to follow that light inside, into the home, and look at what it reveals in the light of the Shabbos candles.

The Midrash1 teaches that there were three constant miracles in Sarah’s tent. After her passing they stopped, and when Rivka entered, they returned:

• A cloud of the Shechinah hovered over the tent, reflecting the mitzvah of niddah and a state of taharah.

• There was blessing in the dough; it always rose with abundance, reflecting the mitzvah of challah.

• A lamp burned from Friday night to Friday night, reflecting the mitzvah of Ner Shabbos and the light of Shabbos itself.

These three miracles had deep significance, revealing how Sarah’s life began to repair the chet of Chavah.

Let’s focus on the candles. They reveal that the connection of ohr never cuts. There is a continuous wire of light running through the week. In most homes, Shabbos candles bring the house from darkness into light. In Sar…

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Shabbos Spreading The Light Vayera 5786

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Starting 2013, the Shabbos Project is marked on Parashas Vayeira. It began with Chief Rabbi Warren Goldstein in South Africa and grew into a global kiruv movement. Families across every sector of Judaism join Orthodox communities to bake challah and rediscover the gift of Shabbos. Rabbi Goldstein explains the connection to Vayeira through Avraham and Sarah’s tent, open on all four sides, a vision of hospitality and relief from the heat.

This is a beautiful idea, and I believe we can understand this on a much deeper level. Before the light of Shabbos reaches the guests, it must envelop the host. Parashas Vayeira shows how light moves from inside a person into the world through simple acts of chesed.

As I’ve been tracing the past few weeks: Adam struggled to live with the Ohr Ein Sof, the light of Shabbos. Noach lived with it but could not hold or translate it. Avraham discovered that real understanding begins within and then carries the light into ordinary days. That is the turn from a…

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Shabbos The Light Within Lech Lecha 5786

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Inspiration comes in different forms. Sometimes it is a sudden flash of clarity that propels us forward and other times we need to find the light within ourselves. Noach reached for the light of Shabbos, the Ohr HaGanuz, yet it slipped from his grasp; still, he was the first to live in a world that could contain its radiance. Through the ten generations from Noach to Avraham, the world learned the art of containment, the capacity to let the Ohr Ein Sof dwell within the limits of the finite.

While Noach held Malchus alone, Avraham expanded it into a philosophy of clear emunah that taught the world how to receive kedushah without breaking. He did not merely endure the light, he welcomed it, and in that welcome the nature of humanity’s relationship to the Ohr Ein Sof shifted forever.

Even though Noach did not live Shabbos in its fullness, he captured its glow, the radiance of the Ohr HaGanuz, through which we reconnect to the source of Creation and join Hashem as partners in His work.

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Previously1 we established that Shabbos reconnects the world to its source in Atzilus, to the Ohr HaGanuz, the Infinite Light that preceded existence. However, if Shabbos is what sustains the world, how did the world exist before Shabbos was revealed? What held creation together before anyone lit candles or made kiddush on a Friday night?

My friend Neil Harris compares it to a clockmaker assembling and testing each gear. By the time Shabbos arrived, everything was in place. Hashem wound the clock, so that when He finished, He let go, and the world began to run. That was His rest.

Perhaps the world was still in a state of creation and not yet complete. Meaning that until Avraham acknowledged Hashem, the world’s existence remained in a state of Tohu u’Vohu, unformed and unstable. The Midrash teaches that Hashem warned Bnei Yisrael that if they would not accept the Torah, He would return the world to Tohu u’Vohu. Maybe it was a consequential reminder of what existence feels like without Sha…

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