www.chabadgn.com | Blogs | Parasha Insights

The Power of Believing in Others

Fri, 26 Jun 2026 2:46:00 PM

There was once a rabbi who dedicated his life to teaching the importance of loving children.

One day, he saw children playing near freshly poured concrete outside his home. Their little footprints were damaging the work, and he became upset and began reprimanding them.

A congregant was surprised and asked, “Rabbi, how can this be? You have spent your entire life teaching love and patience with children.”

The rabbi smiled and replied: “You must understand, I love children in the abstract, but not always in the concrete.”

We laugh because the story reveals a deep truth: it is easy to love an ideal. The real test is when life becomes complicated.

This week’s Parshah, Chukat and Balak, teaches us one of the greatest lessons about leadership, education, and human potential.

After forty years of traveling through the desert, the Jewish people were finally ready to enter the Land of Israel. The older generation had passed on, Miriam was no longer alive, and a new generation stood before Moses.

Then suddenly, there was no water.

The people complained.

G-d instructed Moses: “Take the staff, gather the nation, and speak to the rock.”

But Moses struck the rock.

Water flowed, but Moses was told that he would not enter the Promised Land.

Why was this considered such a serious mistake?

Forty years earlier, G-d had commanded Moses to strike the rock. Why was it different now?

The Midrash explains a powerful idea:

When a child is young, sometimes firmness is necessary to break through barriers. But when that child matures, the approach must change. The child must be spoken to, taught, and inspired.

The first generation leaving Egypt had lived as slaves. They were broken by years of oppression. Their emotional “rock” needed to be cracked open.

But the new generation was different. They grew up surrounded by Torah, miracles, and the presence of G-d. They did not need to be broken. They needed to be believed in.

The message is timeless:

There is a time to strike the rock.

And there is a time to speak to the rock.

Every person has an outside that may appear hard — but inside there may be a reservoir of faith, kindness, and greatness waiting to emerge.

A great leader does not only see what a person is today.

A great leader sees what that person can become.

This is true with our children, our students, our communities — and even with ourselves.

If we only pressure, criticize, and demand, we may push people deeper behind their walls.

But when people feel respected, trusted, and valued, they discover the strength that was inside them all along.

Moses was the greatest leader who ever lived. Yet even Moses had to learn that every generation requires a different approach.

King Solomon teaches: “There is a time for everything under Heaven.”

A time for discipline.

A time for correction.

A time for patience.

A time for compassion.

The greatest question is not only how we change others, but whether we have the wisdom to recognize the greatness already hidden inside them.

May we learn to look beyond the surface, to speak to the rocks around us, and to reveal the waters of blessing hidden within every soul.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

No Brother or Sister Left Behind

Mon, 22 Jun 2026 3:56:00 PM

Four Catholic mothers and a Jewish mother were having coffee together.

The first said, “My son is a priest. People call him ‘Father.’”

The second said, “My son is a bishop. They call him ‘Your Grace.’”

The third said, “My son is a cardinal. They call him ‘Your Eminence.’”

The fourth smiled and said, “My son is the Pope. People call him ‘Your Holiness.’”

They all turned to the Jewish mother.

She replied, “My son is argumentative, confrontational, self-centered, impossible, and irrational. When he walks into a room, people say, ‘Oh my G-d!’”

The joke is funny because it contains a deeper truth. Jews have never been ordinary. We question, struggle, challenge, persevere, and refuse to disappear.

That is precisely the challenge at the heart of this week’s Parshah, Shelach.

The spies returned from the Land of Israel and convinced the nation that the mission was impossible. Fear spread through the camp. The people cried, rebelled, and lost confidence in the future. As a result, G-d decreed that they would remain in the wilderness for forty years.

Their tragedy was not merely fear of entering the Land. It was a failure to believe in their destiny.

Throughout Jewish history, this challenge has repeated itself. Whenever exile became too painful and the journey too long,

Jews searched for alternatives. Some sought to abandon Judaism. Others attempted to separate Jewish nationhood from Torah.

Still others tried to reshape Judaism to fit the spirit of the times.

Then came the Rebbe.

The Rebbe looked at a generation wounded by assimilation, communism, the Holocaust, and the many challenges after October 7th,

facing the Jewish people, and delivered a powerful message:

Do not abandon your roots.

If you want to influence the world, become more Jewish, not less.

If you want a stronger connection to Israel, connect the Land of Israel to the Torah of Israel.

If you want to inspire the next generation, teach authentic Judaism with confidence, depth, and pride.

But the Rebbe taught something even deeper.

The greatest danger of exile is not suffering.

The greatest danger is settling for less than redemption.

Yes, the State of Israel is a miracle. Yes, Jewish success around the world is a blessing. But after thousands of years of exile,

persecution, expulsions, pogroms, the Holocaust, and the sacrifices of countless generations, our dream cannot simply be survival or comfort.

We are here for something greater.

We are here to bring redemption.

One story captures this message.

A year after the Rebbe’s passing, two young Chabad rabbis stopped at a gas station near Daytona, Florida.

The owner led them into a back room where an elderly man was sitting.

Pointing to the two Chassidim, he said:

“Dad, they came to get you.”

The old man began to cry.

Before the Holocaust, he had been raised in a Chassidic home. After losing his family, he abandoned Judaism

and moved to a remote town where no Jews lived. He never even told his children that he was Jewish.

Years later, he happened to see the Lubavitcher Rebbe speaking on television. During the talk,

the Rebbe said that no Jew would ever be forgotten and that when Moshiach comes, every Jew will be gathered home.

Those words pierced his heart.

The next morning, he told his family that he was Jewish and added:

“One day, the Rebbe promised that someone would come for me.”

Years later, when those two Chassidim walked into the gas station, his son looked at him and said:

“Dad, they came to get you.”

That story captures the Rebbe’s vision.

He never gave up on a Jew.

The spies saw giants; the Rebbe saw greatness.

The spies saw obstacles; the Rebbe saw opportunity.

The spies saw a wilderness; the Rebbe saw a path to redemption.

That is the challenge of our generation.

Never settle.

Never surrender.

Never forget who you are.

Every Jew matters.

Every mitzvah matters.

Every soul matters.

And redemption matters.

May we merit very soon to hear the call for which the Jewish people have waited throughout history:

“They came to get you.”

And this time, they have come to bring us home.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Five Languages of Love

Fri, 19 Jun 2026 4:00:00 PM

A man once turned to a couple and said, “You two are very negative.”

They replied, “Yes! But remember, two negatives make a positive.”

We laugh, but there is a deeper truth. Every relationship has its own language. The challenge is not only to love, but also to know how the other person receives love.

A famous marriage counselor, Dr. Gary Chapman, discovered that people express and experience love in five different ways:

Words of affirmation.
Quality time.
Giving gifts.
Acts of service.
Physical touch.

Two people may truly love each other, yet still feel distant because they are speaking different languages.

The fascinating truth is that the Torah revealed this idea thousands of years ago.

The Gemara teaches that a person who brings joy to a bride and groom is connected to the five voices mentioned by the prophet:

“The voice of happiness, the voice of joy, the voice of the groom, the voice of the bride, and the voice of those who thank Hashem.”

And the reward? The Torah itself was given with five voices at Har Sinai.

Why this connection?

Because the greatest relationship in the world is the relationship between the Jewish people and Hashem.

And just like a marriage needs communication, our connection with Hashem requires understanding the language of love.

Words of affirmation

Judaism begins with words.

We thank Hashem every morning with Modeh Ani. We make blessings before we eat, after we eat, when we see something beautiful, and even for the simple gift of waking up.

Hashem created the world through speech. Our words have the power to build or destroy.

A compliment can give someone strength. A harsh word can break someone.

The same is true in our relationship with Hashem — He wants to hear our gratitude.

Quality time

Love is not only what we do. Sometimes love is simply being present.

The Rebbe once explained that Hashem says:

“Give Me only five minutes of your day, but let those five minutes belong only to Me.”

A person can spend hours with someone while distracted, but five focused minutes can create a deep connection.

That is the gift of Shabbat, Torah, and tefillah, time dedicated only to Hashem.

Giving gifts

A gift is not about its price. It is about the message: “I was thinking about you.”

The Torah says about the humble flour offering:

“The soul who brings it.”

Why call it a soul?

Because Hashem does not measure the size of the gift, he values the heart behind it.

Every mitzvah, every act of tzedakah, every effort we make is a gift we give to Hashem.

Acts of service

Love is shown through action.

Cooking a meal, helping someone, doing something difficult for another person — these are acts of love because they require sacrifice.

This is the meaning of avodah, serving Hashem.

Every mitzvah says: “Hashem, You matter enough that I will change my schedule, my habits, and my desires for You.”

Physical connection

Judaism is a religion of action.

We don’t only think about holiness, we touch it.

We put on tefillin. We light Shabbat candles. We shake a lulav. We eat matzah.

Through physical mitzvot, we create a tangible connection with the Divine.

Yesterday was the 32nd Yahrzeit of the Rebbe. In 1991, a man came to the Rebbe with a question.

His elderly father was 88 years old and very sick. He could no longer go to shul, and he felt that his life had lost meaning.

“What can I tell my father?” he asked.

The Rebbe answered:

“Tell him that every mitzvah a Jew does creates pleasure for Hashem Himself. Imagine, a small human being can bring joy to the Creator of the universe.”

The Rebbe taught him that even one mitzvah has infinite value.

That is the message of the five voices.

Hashem is not looking only for grand achievements.

He is looking for a connection.

A kind word.
A moment of prayer.
A mitzvah done with love.
A small act of kindness.

Every one of these is a voice saying:

“Hashem, we are still connected.”

May we merit to strengthen our relationship with Hashem, with our families, and with each other — until the greatest voice of all is heard:

The voice of redemption.

Shabbat Shalom.

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The People Who Changed The World!

Thu, 4 Jun 2026 3:55:00 PM

One Yom Kippur, in the middle of Musaf, the rabbi suddenly fell to the floor beside the bimah and cried:

“O G-d! Before You, I am nothing!”

The chazzan was so inspired that he immediately threw himself to the ground and cried:

“O G-d! Before You, I am nothing!”

A moment later, Saul Blumenthal jumped from the back row, prostrated himself in the aisle, and shouted:

“O G-d! Before You, I am nothing!”

The chazzan nudged the rabbi and whispered:

“Look who thinks he's nothing.”

The joke is funny because it exposes a painful truth: sometimes even humility can become a source of pride.

A man was promoted to Vice President of his company. The title went straight to his head. He bragged about it everywhere he went.

Finally, his wife said, “Relax. Nowadays, everyone is a vice president. They even have a Vice President of Peas at the supermarket.”

Determined to prove her wrong, he called.

“May I speak to the Vice President of Peas?”

The answer came back:

“Fresh or frozen?”

Human beings love titles, recognition, and honor.

Yet in this week's Parshah, Bwhaalotecha, the Torah gives the greatest compliment ever bestowed upon a human being:

"The man Moses was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth."

Not the wisest. Not the holiest. Not the greatest leader. The humblest. And that raises a question.

How could Moses, who confronted Pharaoh, split the sea, ascended Sinai, and spoke with G-d face to face, be humble?

The answer lies in understanding what humility really is.

Humility Is Not Self-Negation

Rabbi Rafael of Barshad once said:

"When I get to Heaven, they may ask me, 'Why didn't you learn more Torah?'

I'll answer, 'I lacked the ability.'

'Why didn't you do more kindness?' 'I lacked the strength.'

'Why didn't you give more charity?' 'I lacked the money.'

But then they'll ask:

'If you were so poor, weak, and limited, why were you so arrogant?'

And for that I will have no answer."

Humility does not mean denying your gifts.

If you're smart, pretending you're foolish is not humility.

If you're talented, pretending you're talentless is not humility.

Humility means recognizing that every gift ultimately comes from G-d.

"I'm Under Oath"

The famous Rabbi Yechezkel Abramsky once testified in a British court.

The judge asked:

"Are you the leading authority on Jewish law in the British Empire?" "Yes."

"The leading spokesman?" "Yes."

"The senior rabbi?" "Yes."

The judge was stunned. "What happened to humility?"

Rabbi Abramsky smiled. "What should I do, Your Honor? I'm under oath."

Humility is not pretending greatness doesn't exist.

Humility is remembering who gave it to you.

Holding Others High

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described watching Queen Elizabeth meet Holocaust survivors.

Royal schedules are precise. Yet on that day she lingered.

One survivor after another approached her.

She listened patiently to every story.

People who had once been treated as less than human suddenly felt like royalty.

Rabbi Sacks said, "That is humility." Not holding yourself low and holding others high.

Moses knew exactly who he was.

But he never confused gifts with ownership.

Everything he possessed was a trust from Heaven.

The greatest leader in history never asked:

"Why aren't others like me?" He asked:

"Have I done enough with what I was given?" That is humility.

The Talmud tells us that Rav Yosef compared himself to an ox that plows a field. Why?

Because the ox doesn't create the grain. It only prepares the ground.

The rain, sunlight, seed, and growth come from elsewhere.

Rav Yosef understood that all his greatness was a gift.

His job was simply to use it.

Come See What a Human Being Is

Rabbi Yaakov Yosef suffered a stroke late in life.

Once a brilliant scholar, he struggled to remember his own thoughts.

On Shabbat Shuvah, he insisted on delivering a sermon.

He rose to speak. Forgot. Tried again. Forgot. Again. Forgot.

Finally, he looked at the congregation and said:

"Come see what a human being is." That was the entire sermon.

People later said it was the most powerful sermon they ever heard.

Because they suddenly understood. Everything can disappear.

Only our relationship with G-d endures.

In the Rebbe's Office

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described his first meeting with the Rebbe.

He expected charisma. Instead, he encountered listening.

Complete listening. Years later, Rabbi Sacks wrote:

"When I left the room, I realized the room had been filled with my presence and the Rebbe's absence."

The Rebbe had made a young, unknown student feel like the most important person in the world.

That is greatness. Not filling a room with yourself. Making room for someone else.

The Sermon I Never Gave

Years ago, I stood up to give a sermon. The talking in shul was overwhelming.

Frustrated, I sat down and refused to continue. A few days later, a father approached me.

His son suffered from severe cerebral palsy. The boy loved watching my sermons.

Not because he understood the words.

He loved the movement, the expressions, and the excitement.

That morning, it had taken forty-five minutes to bring him to shul.

His face lit up when he saw me standing. Then I sat down.

The father looked at me and said:

"You thought you were speaking to the people who were talking.

You weren't. You were speaking to my son." Then he added:

"You thought the sermon was about your honor.

My son thought it was about joy." That lesson changed me forever.

Sometimes our ego prevents us from seeing the very soul we were sent to help.

The Greatest Person in the Room

The arrogant person walks into a room and asks:

"Who appreciates me?"

The humble person walks into a room and asks, "Who needs me?"

The arrogant person seeks honor. The humble person seeks purpose.

The arrogant person wants attention. The humble person gives attention.

The arrogant person fills the room with himself.

The humble person fills the room with kindness, dignity, and G-dliness.

That is why Moses became the greatest leader who ever lived.

Because he was never focused on being great.

He was focused on serving something greater than himself.

And perhaps that is the deepest definition of humility:

Knowing your gifts.
Knowing their Source.
And using them to lift others.

For in the end, the greatest person in the room is not the one who receives the most honor.

It is the one who leaves everyone else feeling more honored.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Three Blessings That Can Save a Child

Thu, 28 May 2026 3:54:00 PM

There are moments in life that reveal the deepest truths about the human soul.

A university professor once warned his students that any exam not handed in exactly on time would automatically fail. Two hours passed.

Students lined up and submitted their papers. But one student kept writing.

An hour later, he walked to the professor’s desk and tried slipping his exam into the pile.

“It’s too late,” the professor snapped. “I’m not accepting it.”

The student looked at him and asked, “Do you know who I am?” “No.”

“Do you know who I am?” he asked again, louder. “No—and I don’t care.” “Good,” the student replied.

He lifted the entire stack of exams, shoved his paper into the middle, dropped the pile back on the desk, and walked out.

Funny story. Clever story. But life is not a university exam.

In life, every child desperately wants one thing: “Please don’t lose me in the pile.”

Every soul cries: “See me. Know me. Don’t stop believing in me.”

And perhaps nowhere is this truth expressed more powerfully than in this week’s Parsha, when Hashem gives the Kohanim the eternal blessing:

“May Hashem bless you and protect you.
May Hashem shine His face upon you and be gracious to you.
May Hashem lift His face toward you and grant you peace.”

These are not just blessings.

They are the Torah’s blueprint for how to love a child. How to build a soul. How to save a life.

The Tears of a Father

One of the holiest memories many Jews carry is Erev Yom Kippur.

A father places his hands on his child’s head. The room becomes quiet. The heart opens.

Sometimes the child barely hears the words. But he feels the trembling hands. He sees the tears. He feels safe.

For more than 3,000 years, Jewish parents have whispered these same words over their children.

Empires rose and collapsed. Nations disappeared.

But Jewish fathers and mothers kept blessing their children with these eternal words.

And perhaps that is one of the secrets of Jewish survival.

Not merely that we studied Torah, but that our children knew they were loved.

Eighty Orphan Girls

After the Holocaust, on Erev Yom Kippur 1945, Rabbi Yekusiel Yehuda Halberstam sat in a displaced persons camp in Germany preparing for Kol Nidrei.

He had lost his wife. He had lost eleven children in Auschwitz.

Then there was a knock on the door.

A young orphan girl entered and said: “Rebbe… I do not have a father to bless me.”

The Rebbe placed his trembling hands on her head and blessed her with Birchas Kohanim.

A few minutes later, another orphan girl came. Then another. Then another.

That night, before Kol Nidrei, the Rebbe blessed more than eighty orphan girls.

Think about this moment.

A man whose own heart had been shattered into pieces was still able to become a father to broken children. Why?

Because this is what a Jew does. This is what a parent does. This is what Hashem does for us.

Even when your own heart is broken, you become light for someone else.

The Greatest Parenting Manual Ever Written

Every appliance comes with instructions. Phones. Computers. Cars. Children do not.

And yet the most difficult responsibility in the world is raising a child.

But perhaps the Torah did give us a parenting manual. It is only fifteen words long. Birchat Kohanim.

First Blessing: Build them and protect them

“May Hashem bless you and protect you.” The first task of a parent is to help a child grow.

To strengthen them emotionally. Spiritually. Morally. Physically. But also, protect them.

Protection is not punishment. Protection is love.

A child who hears no boundaries does not become free. He becomes lost.

A child without discipline is not empowered. He is abandoned.

Real love says: “I care enough to protect your future.”

The Plant Story

Two neighbors planted gardens.

One constantly flooded his plants with water and attention.

The other gave only enough water for the roots to search deeper.

Then came a violent storm. The overwatered plants collapsed.

The others survived. Why? Strong roots are built through healthy struggle.

Parents must not only give children comfort. We must also give them roots.

Second Blessing: Smile at your child

“May Hashem shine His face upon you.”

Rashi explains: “May Hashem show you a smiling face.”

Every child needs one thing: To know that their presence brings joy.

Not because of grades. Not because of achievements. Not because of success.

Simply because they exist. A child must sometimes look at his parent and think,

“When I walk into the room, my father’s face lights up.” That feeling can heal a soul for life.

Unconditional Love The blessing continues: “And grant you grace.”

The Hebrew word chein means unconditional favor. Love for free.

Not earned. Not purchased. Not deserved. Pure love.

The kind of love that says: You are mine. And nothing will ever change that.”

Children who grow up with this kind of love develop inner confidence that no storm can destroy.

When Your Son Falls

During the 1992 Olympics, British runner Derek Redmond tore his hamstring in the middle of the race.

He collapsed in agony. Then suddenly he stood up and began limping toward the finish line.

The crowd erupted. And then one man broke through security barriers and ran onto the track.

It was his father. He wrapped his arm around his son and helped him finish the race.

That father could not run the race for his son. But he could tell him: You will not limp alone.

That is parenting.

Third Blessing: Never Turn Away

“May Hashem lift His face toward you and give you peace.”

Rashi says: “May He conquer His anger.” This is the hardest blessing of all.

It is easy to love a cute child. It is harder to love a child whose choices break your heart.

When children are young, we look down at them lovingly. But eventually they grow up.

They develop opinions. They make mistakes. Sometimes terrible mistakes.

And then comes the defining test of love: Will you turn away?

Or will you stay connected? The Torah says, Lift your face.

Do not avert your eyes from your child. You may disagree. You may cry. You may hurt.

But never sever the relationship. Because when a child feels abandoned, peace disappears.

The Cinnamon Buns

A teenage boy once ran away from home after years of emotional pain.

For five years, his parents had no idea where he was.

Then one day, he suddenly walked back into the house.

As he entered, he smelled something unforgettable:
His mother’s hot cinnamon buns.

“Mom,” he asked through tears,
“How did you know I was coming home today?”

His mother embraced him and said, “I didn’t know.

But every single day since you left, I baked these buns hoping today would be the day you came home.”

That is the third blessing.

Never stop preparing your heart for your child’s return.

Never stop believing. Never stop loving.

The Face of Hashem

Perhaps this is why these blessings survived every exile.

Because they are not merely words.

They are the face of Hashem shining through the face of a parent.

Build your children. Protect them. Smile at them. Believe in them.

And when they stumble, never turn away.

Because sometimes the greatest blessing you can give a child is simply this:

“No matter where life takes you…

you will always have a home in my heart.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Are You Chosen — or Just Jewish?

Thu, 21 May 2026 3:52:00 PM

This Shavuot, we are not simply commemorating history.

We are reliving the moment that changed the destiny of humanity forever.

Three thousand three hundred and thirty-eight years ago, a nation of former slaves stood at the foot of a barren mountain in the Sinai desert and witnessed the impossible: an entire people, men, women, and children, hearing the voice of Hashem together.

Not one prophet.
Not one leader.
An entire nation.

At that moment, the Jewish people became eternal.

Until Sinai, we were a family.
After Sinai, we became Hashem’s nation, entrusted with a Divine mission: to bring holiness into darkness, morality into chaos, and the light of Torah into the world.

And look at history.

Egypt is gone.
Babylon is gone.
Persia, Greece, and Rome all faded into history.

But the Jewish people still live and are strong.

Still praying.
Still learning Torah.
Still keeping Shabbat.
Still teaching our children the same words spoken at Sinai.

How?

Because the Jewish people are not a nation created by history.
We are a nation created by Hashem.

If I passed a hall celebrating someone’s 100th birthday, I would walk in just to honor such a rare moment.

But today we celebrate something infinitely greater.

The Jewish people are celebrating our 3,338th birthday.

Think about that.

After exile.
After expulsions.
After pogroms.
After Auschwitz.
After terror and war.

We are still here.

Am Yisrael Chai.

The greatest miracle in history is not the splitting of the sea.

The greatest miracle is the survival of the Jewish people.

Because seas split once.

But Jewish survival has continued every single day for over three millennia.

The Secret of Jewish Confidence

A group of Bat Mitzvah girls once met former Chief Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau and asked him how he speaks before presidents and world leaders without fear.

Rabbi Lau answered:

“When I stand to speak, I remind myself that I am not standing alone. Through my throat speak generations of eternity.”

He explained:

“I represent a people who witnessed every empire rise and fall. Egypt, Babylon, Greece, Rome — where are they now? Yet the Jewish people survived them all.”

What powerful words.

A Jew never stands alone.

Behind every Jewish child stand Abraham and Sarah, Moshe and Miriam, Rabbi Akiva, Rashi, the Rambam, the Baal Shem Tov, and generations of holy Jews who gave everything to remain faithful to Torah.

When a Jew stands tall, eternity stands tall.

Sinai Still Lives

Sometimes we wonder:

Are we really the same Jews who stood at Sinai?

Is the Jew walking through Harvard, Oxford, or a street in Great Neck truly connected to the Jews who crossed the Red Sea?

The answer is yes.

And the world itself proves it.

Why is the tiny Jewish nation constantly at the center of world attention?
Why does hatred toward the Jew continue generation after generation?

Because Sinai still lives.

The Jewish people carry a message the world cannot escape:
That morality matters.
That G-d exists.
That history has purpose.
That good and evil are real.

Darkness hates light.

That is why Pharaoh hated us.
Why did Haman hate us?
Why Hitler hated us.
Why Hamas hates us.

Not because of politics alone.
But because the Jewish soul carries holiness into the world.

Every Jew is a walking reminder that Hashem runs the world.

The Alarm Clock of Humanity

Maurice Samuel once remarked:

“No man loves his alarm clock.”

The Jewish people are the world’s alarm clock.

A Jew walking down the street is a living testimony that life is not random and history is not meaningless.

Our very existence reminds humanity that there is a Creator and that mankind is accountable for how it lives.

That is why the Jew remains at the center of history.

No Soul Is Ever Forgotten

And this brings us to Yizkor.

Death remains one of life’s greatest mysteries.
No words can erase the pain of loss.

But Yizkor teaches us something eternal:

No Jewish soul is ever forgotten.

There is a remarkable story

An elderly Israeli general once came to synagogue on his mother’s yahrzeit. After davening, he shared how during the Yom Kippur War, he lost dozens of soldiers under his command in a devastating ambush.

The pain shattered him emotionally.

Before a trip to America, a friend urged him to visit the Rebbe.

During their private meeting, the Rebbe cried with him over the fallen soldiers and referred to them as “holy souls.”

At one point, the general mentioned losing 32 soldiers.

The Rebbe gently corrected him:

“Not 32.
34.”

The general believed the Rebbe was mistaken.

But after returning to Israel, two critically wounded soldiers passed away.

Months later, the general asked the Rebbe:

“How did you know?”

The Rebbe tapped his desk and answered:

“Every soul that enters this world and every soul that leaves this world passes through this room.”

What a powerful thought.

No soul is random.
No life insignificant.
No Jew forgotten.

Every soul remains bound forever to the eternal story that began at Sinai.

This Is Our Moment

My friends, this is not the time for Jews to hide.

The world is confused.
Morality is collapsing.
Darkness grows louder every day.

And now more than ever, the world needs the voice of Sinai.

The answer to darkness is not fear.

The answer is more light.

More Torah.
More Shabbat.
More mitzvot.
More Jewish pride.
More Jewish unity.

Three thousand three hundred and thirty-eight years later, the fire of Sinai still burns inside every Jewish soul.

And no force on earth can extinguish the flame that Hashem Himself ignited.

May this Shavuot awaken within us renewed faith, renewed courage, renewed unity, and renewed joy in being part of the eternal people.

And may we merit very soon to welcome Moshiach, when the entire world will recognize the truth proclaimed at Sinai:

Hashem is One.
His Torah is eternal.
And the people of Israel live forever.

Amen.

Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

When the Most Powerful Nation Honors Shabbat

Thu, 14 May 2026 3:51:00 PM

For thousands of years, the world mocked the idea of Shabbat.

Empires worshiped power.

Civilizations worshiped money.

Kings worshiped conquest.

Modern society worships speed.

And the Jew?

The Jew closed his store on the busiest day of the week.

Turned off the world.

Lit two candles.

And declared:

“There is something greater than business.

Greater than technology.

Greater than ambition.

Greater even than man himself.”

Now, in a stunning twist of history, the most powerful nation on earth is publicly speaking the language of Shabbat.

President Donald Trump’s proclamation of “Shabbat 250” is far more than a political announcement. It feels almost prophetic.

In honor of 250 years of American independence and the Jewish contribution to America, the United States is encouraging the observance of a National Shabbat from Friday evening, May 15, through Saturday night, May 16, 2026.

Think about the magnitude of this moment.

After centuries in which Jews were persecuted for keeping Shabbat…

After generations in which Jewish workers lost jobs because they refused to work on Saturday…

After millions marched to their deaths with “Shma Yisrael” on their lips while clinging to the holiness of Shabbat…

The world is beginning to acknowledge that the Jewish people were guarding a treasure all along.

Not merely a day of rest.

A secret for survival.

A remedy for the soul.

A sanctuary in time.

Because the modern world is collapsing beneath the weight of its own noise.

People have more comfort than ever before—yet less peace.

More entertainment—yet more emptiness.

More connection—yet more loneliness.

More information—yet less wisdom.

Humanity runs faster and faster, but no longer remembers where it is going.

And suddenly, an ancient voice breaks through the chaos:

“Stop.”

Stop chasing.

Stop scrolling.

Stop calculating.

Stop trying to control the universe.

For one holy day, breathe.

For one holy day, remember your soul.

For one holy day, remember your Creator.

This was the gift of Shabbat.

Shabbat taught the world that a human being is not a machine.

That life is more than production.

That holiness begins when the noise ends.

The Romans are gone.

The Greeks are gone.

The Soviets are gone.

The Nazis are gone.

But somewhere tonight, a Jewish mother will still light Shabbat candles.

A father will still bless his children.

A little child will still sing “Shalom Aleichem.”

The empires vanished.

The Shabbat table remained.

Because Shabbat did not merely preserve the Jews.

Shabbat created the Jews.

It protected Jewish identity through inquisitions, pogroms, Holocausts, communism, exile, and assimilation.

When everything else was stripped away, one thing remained untouched:

Friday night.

And now the world itself seems exhausted enough to finally understand what the Torah taught humanity over three thousand years ago:

Without holiness, man loses himself.

Without stillness, the soul suffocates.

Without G-d, civilization eventually collapses under the weight of its own arrogance.

This is why this moment feels so significant.

Not because America suddenly became religious.

Not because politics changed.

But because buried beneath this declaration is a profound admission:

The world desperately needs what Shabbat represents.

Faith.

Family.

Meaning.

Soul.

Rest.

G-d.

Of course, Shabbat remains the eternal covenant between Hashem and the Jewish people. Its holiness can never be duplicated.

But when nations begin to recognize its beauty…

when humanity begins to rediscover the holiness of stopping…

when the world begins searching for peace instead of endless consumption…

It feels like the beginning of an awakening.

Perhaps this is what the prophets envisioned:

A world slowly emerging from spiritual darkness.

A world beginning to thirst once again for the Divine.

Because Shabbat is not simply a day off.

Shabbat is a declaration to all of humanity:

Hashem is the Creator of the world.

Man is not alone.

Life has purpose.

The soul matters.

And perhaps now, more than ever, our mission is clear:

To live Shabbat with joy.

With fire.

With pride.

With beauty.

Not mechanically.

Not out of habit.

But as the greatest gift ever given to mankind through the Jewish people.

Because if the world is finally beginning to look toward Shabbat…

Then let it see the light.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Your Story Is Not Over

Fri, 8 May 2026 7:00:00 AM

A man walks into a bar and orders five shots. The bartender gives him a strange look, but lines them up. The man downs all five quickly.“Four shots!” he calls.

The bartender serves four. Down they go.

“Three shots!”

Then two.

Finally, swaying on his stool, he asks for one last shot. The bartender pours it. The man stares at it and says:

“You know, it’s a funny thing, the less I drink, the drunker I get.”

The same can be said about exile. The fewer Jews remained after every persecution, the stronger and more indestructible the Jewish people seemed to become.

The Promise Hidden Inside the Curse

This Shabbat, we complete the book of Vayikra, and pronounce three times Chazak, Chazak Venitchazek, which ends with one of the most terrifying passages in the Torah: the rebuke, the rebuke.

G-d warns the Jewish people of destruction, exile, fear, persecution, and scattering among the nations if they abandon their covenant.

History painfully proved these words true.

Yet at the climax of the curses comes one of the greatest promises ever uttered:

“Even when they are in the land of their enemies, I will not reject them nor despise them to destroy them and break My covenant with them, for I am Hashem their G-d.”

Empires rise and fall. Civilizations disappear. But the people bound to the eternal G-d become eternal themselves.

It is said that Kaiser Friedrich III, who respected the Jews, was astonished by Jewish survival. How could one tiny nation endure centuries of expulsions, massacres, humiliation, and hatred?

He would quote the verse:

“Even when they are in the land of their enemies, I will not reject them…”The nations tried endlessly to erase the Jew. Yet the Jew remained.

“You Will Never Cease to Exist.” The prophets repeated this promise again and again.

Malachi declared: “I, G-d, do not change—and you, the children of Jacob, have not ceased to exist.”

Jeremiah proclaimed: Only if the laws of the sun, moon, and stars disappear will Israel cease to be a nation before G-d.

As long as nature exists, the Jew exists.

These verses carried Jews through crusades, inquisitions, pogroms, and the Holocaust. They whispered one message to every broken generation:

Your story is not over.

In April 1943, during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, a Jewish family sat at a Seder in a bunker.

A child asked the Four Questions. Then he added:

“Tatti, can I ask a fifth question? Why is our nation different from every other nation? Why does everyone want to destroy us?”

His father answered:

“The Jewish people began before the other nations, and it will survive long after the Third Reich is gone. You cannot understand a story before it is finished—and our story is not over.”

Then the boy asked a sixth question:

“Next year, will I be alive to ask the questions again? Will you be here to answer me?” The father replied honestly:

“I do not know. But this I promise you: Somewhere in the world, there will always be a Jewish child asking the Mah Nishtanah. G-d swore that the flame of Israel will never be extinguished.”

The father and son were murdered.

But this past Pesach, millions of Jewish children once again asked the Four Questions.

The Nazis are gone. The child’s voice lives on.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks pointed out something astonishing.

The first mention of Israel outside the Torah appears on the Merneptah Stele in Egypt over 3,000 years ago. After listing his military victories, Pharaoh boasts:

“Israel is laid waste; its seed is no more.”

The first recorded mention of Israel outside Tanach is an obituary.

Ironically, the second mention says the same thing. The Mesha Stele, written by the king of Moab, triumphantly declares:

“Israel has perished forever.”

Every empire wrote the Jewish obituary.

Egypt.

Babylon.

Rome.

The Inquisition.

Hitler.

Yet every civilization that announced the death of Israel disappeared into history, while the Jew still lives.

Blaise Pascal wrote in amazement that Greece, Rome, Sparta, and mighty civilizations vanished long ago, yet the Jews survived every attempt to annihilate them.

Jewish history defies the laws of history.

The Wallet

Rabbi Yitzchak D. Grossman once received a shocking gift from Germany.

A German parliamentarian told him that his dying father confessed to having been a Nazi officer during World War II. While destroying a synagogue, he found a Torah scroll and cut off a piece of parchment to make himself a wallet.

For decades, the Nazi officer carried his military certificate inside parchment taken from a Sefer Torah.

Before dying, he instructed his son to return it to a Jew.

The wallet eventually reached Rabbi Grossman in Israel.

Trembling, the Rabbi examined the parchment. It came from the Rebuke in Devarim, the terrifying rebuke warning of exile and suffering.

And then, immediately after those curses, appeared the words:

“Atem Nitzavim Hayom Kulchem Lifnei Hashem Elokeichem.”
“You are standing today, all of you, before Hashem your G-d.”

Rashi explains: after hearing the curses, the Jews feared they would not survive. Moshe comforted them:

Just as G-d lives forever, so will the Jewish people. Imagine the irony.

A Nazi desecrates a Torah scroll and fashions it into his wallet, convinced Hitler has triumphed over the Jews forever.

Seventy years later, that same parchment is kissed by a rabbi in Israel, surrounded by thousands of Jewish children learning Torah.

The Torah survived the Nazi.

The Jew survived the empire that sought to erase him.

The Zohar takes the verse even deeper.

Why does the Torah say: “I will not despise them”? The Zohar explains with a parable.

A man deeply loved a woman who lived in a foul-smelling marketplace of tanners. Normally, nobody could tolerate the stench. But because his beloved was there, to him it smelled sweeter than perfume.

So too, says G-d: Even when My children are in exile, in broken places, surrounded by impurity and suffering, I remain with them because My beloved is there.

The covenant is not merely historical. It is personal. It is eternal love.

Jewish history contains unbearable pain. Our story is written not only in ink, but in tears.

And yet the promise endured. No one was hated so irrationally. No nation was exiled so often.

No civilization faced so many attempts at annihilation. Yet the Jew lives.

Small.

Vulnerable.

Outnumbered.

Still here.

Still praying.

Still believing.

Still building.

Still asking the Four Questions.

The Rebuke came true.

But so did the promise at its end.

No exile is endless.

No darkness is final.

No enemy has the final word.

Without hope, Judaism could not have survived.

But Jews kept hope alive, and hope kept the Jews alive.

When dealing with evil, the Torah teaches us never to surrender moral clarity. Appeasement never defeated darkness. Strength, courage, faith, and conviction did.

But above all stands one eternal truth:

The Jewish people live because G-d’s covenant lives.

Empires crumble. Haters vanish. Obituaries fade. But Am Israel Chai.

And it will continue to live until the day when the world is filled with peace, goodness, and redemption with the coming of Moshiach במהרה בימינו אמן.

Shabbat Shalom and Chazak Chazak Vanitchazek!

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

When Power Meets Faith

Thu, 30 Apr 2026 9:32:00 PM

An 80-year-old Jewish man goes to the doctor for a check-up. The doctor is amazed at what good shape the guy is in and asks, "How do you stay in such great physical condition?"

I am Jewish, and I am a golfer," says the old guy, "and that's why I'm in such good shape. I’m up well before daylight and out golfing up and down the fairways. Afterwards, I have a glass of schnapps, and all is well.

"Well," says the doctor, "I’m sure that helps, but there’s got to be more to it. Something in the genes. How old was your father when he died?"

"Who said my father is dead?" The doctor is amazed. "You mean you're 80 years old, and your father is still alive? How old is he?"

"He’s 99 years old," says the old man. "In fact, he golfed with me this morning; then we went to the beach for a walk, had a little schnapps, and that’s why he's still alive. He's Jewish and he’s a golfer, too."

"Well," the doctor says, "that’s great, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that. How about your father's father--your grandfather? How old was he when he died?"

"Who said my Zaydeh's dead?" the old man replies.

Stunned, the doctor asks, "You mean you're 80 years old and your grandfather is still living!? Incredible, how old is he?"

“He's 1118 years old," the old golfer says.

The doctor is becoming frustrated at this point: “So, I guess he went golfing with you this morning, too?"

"No, he couldn’t go because he's going to get married today."

At this point, the doctor is close to losing it. "Getting married!! Why on earth would an 118-year-old guy want to get married!?"

And the grandson responds: "Who said he wanted to? His mother forced him!”

Our Torah portion, Emor, contains one of the most challenging laws in the Torah: a Kohen, a priest with certain physical blemishes, could not perform the service in the Holy Temple.
He remained fully holy, shared in the sacred offerings, and retained every privilege of priesthood, but he could not serve at the altar.
At first glance, this feels deeply unsettling.

The Torah was the first voice in history to proclaim the absolute dignity of every human being. It teaches that every person is created in the image of G-d, regardless of appearance,
strength, health, or physical condition. Jewish law makes no distinction between the value of a strong man and the value of a bedridden invalid. Every life is infinitely sacred.
So why would the Torah disqualify a blemished Kohen from Temple service?

Last year, we explored one answer. This year, let us examine a powerful insight from Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch—an insight that confronts one of the most persistent myths of modern times.

Religion Is for the Weak?
Rabbi Hirsch lived in 19th-century Germany. One of his famous contemporaries was another German-born Jew who was baptized as a child and later became one of religion’s fiercest critics: Karl Marx.

Marx famously wrote: “Religion is the opium of the people.” What did he mean?
Religion, he argued, is for the broken. For the defeated. For those too weak to face reality.

If life crushes you, turn to G-d.
If suffering overwhelms you, invent heaven.
If you cannot solve your problems, create a prayer.
If science confuses you, hide in faith.

Religion, in this view, is not truth; it is anesthesia.

Many still believe this today.

Faith is portrayed as emotional dependence.
Prayer as insecurity.
Torah as primitive nostalgia.
Belief as intellectual surrender.

Strong people build. Weak people pray.

That is the myth.

The Torah’s Astonishing Answer
Rabbi Hirsch says this mitzvah comes to shatter that illusion.

The altar of G-d is not for the symbolically weak, collapsed, frightened, or defeated.

It is for the whole, the vigorous, the dignified, the strong.

In his words, the sanctuary was not built so that broken humanity could crawl there seeking pity. It stands for life in its fullest power and beauty.

Judaism does not see faith as a retreat from life.

It sees faith as the highest form of engagement with life.

Not blindness, but vision.
Not superstition, but depth.
Not fear, but courage.
Not escape, but responsibility.
Not weakness, but strength.

Science Did Not Bury G-d
Many assume that science replaced faith. But often, the opposite is true.
The more deeply one studies creation, the harder it becomes to dismiss wonder.

Study the human cell.
Study DNA coding.
Study the precision of planetary motion.
Study the balance of ecosystems.
Study consciousness.
Study memory.
Study light.
Study time.

Every answer opens ten new questions.

Maimonides wrote nearly a thousand years ago:

When a person reflects on the greatness of creation and sees the wisdom within it, he is moved to love and stand in awe of G-d.

Science does not eliminate mystery. It magnifies it.
The Rebbe and Gordon Zacks
The late Gordon Zacks, a major American Jewish leader, once met the Lubavitcher Rebbe in 1969.

The Rebbe asked him for one hundred million dollars for Jewish education. Zacks declined.

Then the Rebbe asked: “Do you believe in revelation?”
Zacks answered: “I believe in G-d. I believe He inspires. But I do not believe He writes.”
The Rebbe then began asking question after question.

Who taught the seed to grow?
Who taught the body to heal?
Who taught bees to organize?
Who taught birds to migrate?
Who taught the Earth to sustain life?

Everything in creation seems to know its mission.

The ant knows how to build.
The bee knows how to pollinate.
The stars move in order.
The lungs know how to breathe.

And then there is one creature utterly confused: Man.
The Rebbe asked: “Is the human being the only creation given no roadmap?”
The Torah, he said, is not a burden. It is the manual for being human.

A Smaller Life
Can a person live without G-d? Certainly.
A person can live believing existence is accidental, morality is invented, consciousness is chemistry, and purpose is self-created.

One can survive that way. But it is a smaller life.
You can live without music. But life is poorer.
You can live without love. But life is emptier.
You can live without poetry. But life is flatter.
You can live without faith. But life is narrower.
Without G-d, the sunrise is heat. With G-d, it is wonder.
Without G-d, the heartbeat is mechanical. With G-d, it is a miracle.
Without G-d, the soul is biology. With G-d, it is eternity.
Who Really Has More Faith?
Many say belief requires blind faith. But perhaps disbelief does. Which takes more faith:
To believe that a universe of staggering order, mathematical precision, consciousness, morality, beauty, and life emerged from nothing, for no reason, or to believe it carries meaning?
To say everything is random may require greater faith than to say it is purposeful.

Why the Kohen Had to Be Whole
Now the symbolism becomes clear.

The Kohen represented Divine service before the nation.

He had to reflect vitality, dignity, confidence, wholeness, and strength. To teach Israel:
We do not come to G-d because we are pathetic.
We do not keep Torah because we are scared.
We do not pray because we cannot think.

We choose G-d because we want to think deeply.
We choose Torah because we want to live greatly.
We choose mitzvos because we want life charged with holiness.

A Message to Our Generation
Many Jews today feel embarrassed by faith.

They are taught that religion is outdated, prayer is irrational, and holiness is for the unsophisticated.

Do not believe it. It takes no courage to drift with culture. It takes courage to stand for the truth.
It takes no depth to mock holiness. It takes depth to seek it.
It takes no greatness to worship yourself.

It takes greatness to serve something higher than yourself.

Faith Is for the Strong
Faith is for minds brave enough to ask ultimate questions.
Faith is for hearts large enough to feel wonder.
Faith is for souls strong enough to live with discipline.
Faith is for people courageous enough to kneel before truth.

The weak run from responsibility. The strong stand before G-d.
A life without G-d may be possible.

But a life with G-d is larger, deeper, richer, holier, and infinitely more alive.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

How to Respect the People We Love?

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 6:00:00 AM

A traveling salesman once knocked on the door of a home. Before anyone answered, he heard shouting inside. Furniture scraped across the floor. Voices were raised. Doors slammed. Chaos.

Finally, the door swung open.

A disheveled man stood there, breathing heavily.

The salesman straightened himself and asked politely:

“Sir, may I speak to the master of the house?”

The man wiped his brow and replied:

“You’ll have to wait a few minutes… we’re deciding that right now.”

Some homes are run by one person.
Some by two people.
And some by whoever wins the latest argument.

But behind the humor lies a serious truth:

Many people live under the same roof, yet do not know how to truly honor one another.

And that may explain one of the greatest tragedies in Jewish history.

The Talmud tells us that Rabbi Akiva had 24,000 students, spiritual giants, future leaders of Israel. Yet all of them died in a devastating plague because they “did not show proper respect for one another.”

This is why the days between Pesach and Shavuot are observed as a period of mourning. During these weeks, they died. On Lag BaOmer, the plague stopped, and therefore the day became one of celebration.

But this is astonishing.

Rabbi Akiva’s most famous teaching is:

“Love your fellow as yourself—this is a great principle of Torah.”

If anyone should have excelled in relationships, it should have been his students.

How could the disciples of the man who preached love fail in respect?

Unless love and respect are not the same thing.

There are people you love deeply, but do not always like.

There are people you like very much, but do not love.

There are people you both love and like.

And then there are some people whom you avoid at Kiddush.

You love your parents.
You love your children.
You love your siblings.

But do you always like them?

Not necessarily.

Sometimes a husband loves his wife deeply, and still cannot understand how towels are folded “wrong.”

Sometimes a wife loves her husband profoundly and still wonders why he cannot close a cabinet door.

Love exists. Liking may need work.

On the other hand, you may like a colleague, admire a neighbor, enjoy a business partner, yet not love them at all.

So what is the difference?

Love comes from connection.

Respect comes from recognition.

I love you because in some deep place, we are one.

We share blood.
We share memory.
We share destiny.
We share a soul.

That is why family love often survives even when relationships become strained.

But respect is different.

Respect means I appreciate who you are, even where you are not like me.

I honor your individuality.
I value your perspective.
I make room for your uniqueness.

Love says:

You belong to me.

Respect says:

You do not belong to me, and still matter infinitely.

Many relationships have love but lack respect.
Others have respect but lack love.

Great relationships require both.

Someone once asked:

“What is the difference between an anti-Semite and a Jew? Sometimes both complain about Jews.”

The answer?

Ask the anti-Semite about Jews as a people:

“They control everything. They ruin everything. They are the source of every problem.”

Then ask him:

Why is your doctor Goldberg?
Why is your lawyer Klein?
Why is your accountant Berkowitz?

He answers: Those Jews are different.

He may like individual Jews.
But he has no love for the Jewish people.

Now ask a Jew about the Jewish people.

His eyes fill with tears.

“There is no people like my people. I love every Jew.”

Then ask him about the Jew sitting next to him in shul.

“Him? A thief.”

And the fellow on the left?

“A nudnik.”

And the brother-in-law?

“Let’s discuss something else.”

Because a Jew often loves Klal Yisrael, the Jewish people.

But struggles to appreciate Reb Yisrael, the Jew next door.

We are one family.

We argue like family.
We interfere like family.
We judge like family.
We forgive like family.
And we love like family.

But love alone is not enough.

A Tale of Two Carpets

Dr. Ze’ev Maghen tells a remarkable story from Persian Jewish history.

In 19th-century Kashan, a Jewish merchant allegedly overcharged a Muslim cleric. The insulted man became enraged and stirred the region’s religious leaders into a frenzy.

Soon, the governor issued a terrifying decree:

Every Jew must convert to Islam or face death.

The Jewish community was paralyzed with fear.

The elders gathered in the rabbi’s home. They prayed. They cried. They debated. But no one had a solution.

Then the rabbi’s wife, who had silently been serving tea the whole time, spoke up:

“Leave this to my sisters and me.”

By next week, the thunder of the looms will be heard throughout the neighborhood day and night.

When the elders returned, two carpets lay rolled on the floor.

“Take these to the governor,” she said. “And do exactly as I tell you.”

The delegation stood trembling before the ruler.

They presented the gifts.

The first carpet was magnificent, overflowing with intricate colors, flowers, designs, dazzling artistry, and breathtaking detail.

The second carpet was completely plain.

Solid red. Nothing more.

The governor exploded.

“Do you mock me? What fool would choose the plain rug over the masterpiece?”

The oldest Jew stepped forward and bowed.

“Your Excellency, the first carpet is in your province today.

It contains many people, many colors, many faiths, many tribes, many languages.

The second carpet is what your land will become if you destroy its diversity.

Now tell us honestly:

Would you exchange the first carpet for the second?”

The governor was silent.

Then he rescinded the decree.

Because wisdom understands:

Uniformity is simple. Diversity is beautiful.

There are many counts in Torah performed by courts and leaders.

But one count belongs to every individual: Sefirat Haomer

The Torah says: You shall count for yourselves.

Each person must count personally.

No one can count for you. Why?

Because these weeks teach us that every soul matters.

Month of Nissan — Love

Pesach is the birth of the Jewish nation.

In Nissan, we became one people.

Nissan teaches us to love each other.

Month of Iyar — Respect

During Iyar, we count each day separately.

Day 1.
Day 2.
Day 3.

Every day is distinct. Every day is precious.

Iyar teaches us to honor individuality.

Month of Sivan — Harmony

Then comes Sivan, the month of Torah.

At Sinai we stood: “Like one person with one heart.”

Yet the Midrash says that had even one Jew been missing, Torah could not have been given.

Unity without individuality is not Torah.

Individuality without unity is not Torah.

Torah is both.

Rabbi Akiva’s students surely loved the Jewish people.

But they did not sufficiently honor the uniqueness of one another.

They loved the whole. They diminished the individual.

They valued truth, but not enough tenderness.

They defended principles, but not enough people.

So their failing surfaced precisely during the Omer, the season when we count every day because we must count every person.

Why Lag BaOmer Is Joy

On Lag BaOmer, the plague stopped.

Something changed. They finally understood:

Love is not enough. You must also respect.

You must not only embrace those who are like you.

You must make room for those who are not like you.

That is why children parade on Lag BaOmer.

A parade is one people moving in one direction.

Yet every child walks differently.

Different stride.
Different smile.
Different beat.
Different soul.

And all march together. That is holiness.

The Message for Every Home

Many families have love.

Not every family has respect.

Many communities have loyalty.

Not every community has dignity.

Many marriages are committed.

Not every marriage has listening.

Many schools have standards.

Not every school has sensitivity.

Love says: Stay close to me.

Respect says: I will make space for you.

And where both exist, the Divine Presence enters.

Final Thought

Rabbi Akiva taught: Love your fellow as yourself.

His students had to learn the next lesson:

Respect your fellow for being himself.

Love the people.
Honor the person.
Cherish the nation.
Value the neighbor.

Because when we learn to do both, to love deeply

and respect differences.

We become ready, once again, to receive the Torah.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Night That Can Redefine Your Life

Tue, 31 Mar 2026 10:00:00 PM

Many years ago, the great artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti was approached by an elderly man who asked him to evaluate some drawings.

Rossetti looked carefully and gently told him the truth: the sketches showed little talent.

The old man wasn’t surprised.

Then he asked Rossetti to look at another set, this time, drawings of a young student. Rossetti’s face lit up.

“These are extraordinary,” he said. “This artist has tremendous potential. With encouragement, he could become great.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears.

“That was me,” he said quietly. “Forty years ago. If only someone had told me then… I gave up too soon.”

That is the tragedy of a life unlived.

And that is exactly what the Seder comes to heal.

For many, the Seder is just a meal. For others, it’s long, repetitive, and even boring.

But the Seder was never meant to be endured.

It was meant to awaken you.

The Torah calls Egypt Mitzrayim, a word that also means limitations.

Egypt is not just a place. It is a state of mind.

It is the voice that says:
“You can’t.”
“You’re stuck.”
“This is who you are.”

Like that old artist, many of us live our entire lives never realizing who we could have become.

No one ever told us how much light we carry. Eventually, we stop believing it ourselves.

We settle.

We give up too soon.

And then comes the Seder and declares:

You are not stuck.

You are not small.

You are not finished.

You can leave Egypt.

So here is the challenge of the night:

Think of one thing holding you back.

One fear. One habit. One conversation. One risk you’ve been avoiding.

And then do something about it.

One bold step.

That is your personal Exodus.

And then the Seder does something even more radical.

We begin with “This is the bread of affliction”—and immediately follow with:

“Let all who are hungry come and eat.”

Think about that.

We were slaves. We suffered. We were broken.

So what do we do?

Not “do unto others as they did to you.”

But the opposite.

We choose empathy over bitterness.

We take our pain and use it to heal.

A small story captures this perfectly.

A boy once went to buy a puppy. One of them was limping.

“That’s the one I want,” he said.

The owner tried to dissuade him. “It will never run like the others.”

The boy rolled up his pant leg, revealing a brace.

“I don’t run so well either,” he said softly. “He needs someone who understands.”

That is what freedom looks like.

Not escaping pain but transforming it into compassion.

And then there is one more pillar of the Seder:

Children ask.

Adults ask.

Even if you’re alone, you ask.

Why?

Because slaves don’t ask questions.

Free people do.

A slave accepts reality.

A free person challenges it.

A slave is silent.

A free person is curious, searching, alive.

On Seder night, we don’t just tell a story.

We become people who question, who grow, who refuse to stay stuck.

So tonight, don’t just go through the motions.

Don’t just read the Haggadah.

Live it.

See your limitations, and break them.

Feel your pain, and elevate it.

Please ask your questions and request more details.

And most importantly, don’t be the man who gave up 40 years too early.

This is your moment.

Leave your Egypt.

Become who you were meant to be.

Chag kosher veSameach,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Choosing Hope on Seder Night

Fri, 27 Mar 2026 6:00:00 AM

Over the past week, I have found myself thinking about the approaching Seder night.

For the Jewish people, the Seder is not just a meal. It is the night when our history, our faith, and our future sit together at one table.

Parents look into their children's eyes and pass on a story that has carried us through thousands of years.

And this year, that story feels more real than ever.

Some Seders are remembered for generations.
Others fade quietly into history.

This year will not be forgotten.

Around the world, Jews will sit down to their Seders carrying heavier hearts. Israel continues to face real and painful challenges.

Missiles streak across the skies of the Jewish homeland. Antisemitism has resurfaced in places where we once felt secure.

Only days ago, a synagogue in Michigan was attacked. Thank G-d no lives were lost, but the message was felt.

And yet, in just a short time, Jews everywhere will sit at their tables and declare the same ancient words:

“In every generation they rise against us to destroy us… and the Holy One, blessed be He, saves us from their hand.”

The question is obvious:

How do we celebrate freedom when the world feels so unsettled?

This question is not new.

Nearly two thousand years ago, it was already being lived.

In that generation, two Seders took place.

One was led by Rabban Gamliel, the leader of the Jewish people, in the city of Lod. The other was led by Rabbi Akiva in B’nei Brak.

Both Seders unfolded under the shadow of Roman oppression, after the destruction of the Second Temple.

But they told the story very differently.

Rabban Gamliel’s Seder focused on the pain. On the bitterness. On the maror. His message spoke to a people still bleeding, still grieving, still trying to make sense of loss.

Rabbi Akiva’s Seder told a different story.

Rabbi Akiva was the great optimist of Jewish history, the sage who could stand before the ruins of Jerusalem and laugh, because he already saw redemption being born.

At his Seder, the message was radical:

Even in the night, we tell the story of freedom.
Even in darkness, we celebrate the light within us.

Because the Jewish soul is never in exile.

Just days ago, in Jerusalem, our family experienced this truth in a way we will never forget.

Nearly 150 people gathered in a shelter to celebrate the Brit Milah of a newborn son. The family stood shoulder to shoulder. The blessings were about to be recited.

And then the siren sounded.

A missile had entered Israeli airspace.

For a brief moment, everything froze.

And then… the Brit Milah continued.

A Jewish child entered the covenant of Abraham while missiles streaked across the sky.

In that moment, everything became clear:

Jewish life does not pause for fear.

Even under sirens, we build.
Even in danger, we celebrate.
Even in darkness, we choose light.

That is the story of our people.

And thousands of miles away, the same story continues.

Every time a family lights Shabbat candles…
Every time a child learns an Alef…
Every time Jews gather around a Seder table…

We are continuing an unbroken chain.

This is what Rabbi Akiva saw.

Empires rise. Empires fall.
But the Jewish people choose hope.

This year, we face that same choice.

We can look at the world and see fear, tension, and uncertainty.
Or we can look deeper and see something else entirely.

We are living in a time of extraordinary blessings.

Jewish life is flourishing.
Israel continues to build and grow.
Jews who never sat at a Seder are discovering their heritage.

The same world can feel dark or full of light.

On Seder night, we train our eyes to see differently.

Like our ancestors standing at the sea, trapped, terrified, and yet already witnessing redemption unfold, we learn to see beyond the moment.

Jewish history has already proven Rabbi Akiva right.

We are an eternal people.
Serving the Eternal G-d.
And we will prevail.

Our pain does not silence our song.

It deepens it.

We sing Dayenu with more feeling.
We eat the Matzah with greater awareness.
We believe fully that redemption is coming.

For thousands of years, Jews have gathered around the Seder table through every chapter of history.

Empires have come and gone.

But we are still here.

Still telling the story.
Still lighting candles.
Still teaching our children.
Still believing.

And this year, perhaps we will feel it more deeply than ever.

We will think of our brothers and sisters in Israel.
We will think of Jews everywhere.
And we will remember:

No matter what the world looks like.
The Jewish people always return to the Seder table.

Because that is where our story lives.

And that is where our future begins.

So when someone asks you where you will be this Seder night, give them a simple answer:

I will be sitting with Rabbi Akiva.

Choosing hope.
Choosing faith.
Choosing the future of the Jewish people.

And if you don’t yet have a place for your Seder, our table is open.

It would be an honor to celebrate together as one family.

Wishing you and your family a meaningful Shabbat and a truly uplifting Pesach.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

WHERE DO YOU BELONG?

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 8:40:00 PM

Today is the New Month of Nisan, Rosh Chodesh Nisan, the month of miracles and wonders, as we see the open miracles in Israel and pray for a complete and speedy victory, Amen.

The first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, while still in Egypt, days before redemption, was not about freedom, faith, or even morality.

It was about the New Month of Nisan when the new moon will arrive.

“This month shall be for you the head of months…”
G-d shows Moshe a thin sliver of moonlight and says: “Like this—see it, and sanctify it.”

Moshe struggled. What exactly qualifies as “new”? How much light is enough?
So G-d pointed with His finger: This. This is what you must learn to see.

Why this mitzvah first? Why here, in the darkness of Egypt?

Because this is not just a calendar law.
It is the foundation of Jewish existence.

It is the ability to see light when there is almost none.

A Note from a Soldier

This past week, a story emerged, one that feels like a living commentary on this mitzvah.

A 20-year-old soldier, Hillel Nehemiah Ofen, tragically passed away during training. In his backpack, they found a handwritten note. Not long. Not polished. But it carried the weight of a lifetime.

It began with two words:

“Ani Shayach — I belong.”

He wrote:

I belong to a family, a community, a nation.
I belong to my country, to humanity, to history, and to the future.
I belong to joy and to pain, to fear and to hope.
Everything that happens to my people and me, I belong to it.
And it is my duty to preserve it.
And now, for that duty, I am yours.

Who writes like that?

A young man with no filters, no performance, no branding—just truth.
In a world obsessed with standing out, he understood something deeper:

Real strength is not in standing apart. It is in belonging.

The Secret of the Moon

And suddenly, the mitzvah of the new moon makes sense.

The Jewish people were born with a unique vision, not physical, but spiritual.
A memory etched into the soul from the Exodus: that what looks like darkness is concealment, not absence.

The moon doesn’t generate light.
It reflects it.

Its glow is faint, fragile, easily missed. Yet it carries within it the power of the sun.

That sliver of moon is the symbol of Jewish vision:
To detect the hidden light in the darkness.
To recognize presence in concealment.
To find G-d even when He is not obvious.

That is why G-d said: “See this and sanctify.”

If you can see this sliver,
You can survive history.

You Already Know How to See

The verse says: This month of Nisan is for you the first month.”

For you, because you already have the ability.

Because of what your soul has seen, you already know how to look at the world differently.

Even when the sun is gone…
Even when the full moon is hidden…
Even when all you have is a thin, trembling crescent—

You can still say, "This is holy." This is a beginning. This matters.

And in that moment, you are saying:

I belong.

Belonging vs. Emptiness

Today, a person can have everything, success, wealth, admiration—and still feel empty.

Because belonging is not about how many people see you.
It’s about whether you see the light within yourself.

If I cannot feel that inner spark,
that Divine current is flowing through my life
Then no amount of external validation will save me from loneliness.

But if I can see even a sliver…
If I can feel even a trace…

Then everything changes.

Then I can say:

I belong to life.
I belong to holiness.
I belong to something eternal.

Seeing Light in Real Time

This isn’t theoretical.

It is happening now.

In the darkness of the past months, we have seen flashes of moonlight.

A story from a recent trip to Israel captures this:

A group visited a hospital and unexpectedly encountered Sapir Cohen and her boyfriend, Sasha, recently freed from captivity. Sapir shared how, before everything happened, she began saying Tehillim daily.

That practice carried her through the unimaginable.

Standing there was a man named Steve. Months earlier, he had heard her speak and thought to himself: There’s no way her boyfriend will survive.

His wife responded differently. She began lighting an extra Shabbat candle each week for him.

And now, here they were. Face to Face.

The person they prayed for… standing right in front of them.

A sliver of moonlight.

The First Mitzvah, Revisited

Now we understand.

The first mitzvah is not just to mark time.

It is to create vision.

To train people to never surrender to darkness.
To never define reality by what is obvious.
To never lose the ability to say:

There is light here. Even now.

And if I can see it.

I can sanctify it.
I can build with it.
I can live by it.

Final Thought

You don’t need the full moon.

You don’t need clarity, certainty, or perfection.

You need one thing:

The courage to see a sliver…
and say

“This is enough to begin.”

And in that moment, you fulfill the first mitzvah ever given:

You see.
You sanctify.
And you remember

You belong.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Are You Finding G-d in the Storm?

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 6:00:00 AM

A small child walked to and from school every day. One morning, the weather looked uncertain. Dark clouds were forming, yet the child still made the daily trip.

As the day went on, the winds grew stronger, and thunder and lightning filled the sky.

The mother became worried. She feared her child would be frightened walking home from school, and she also worried that the storm itself might cause harm.

After another roar of thunder and a flash of lightning cutting through the sky like a flaming sword, the concerned mother got into her car and drove toward the school.

Soon she saw her child walking home.

But something unusual was happening.

Every time lightning flashed, the child would stop, look up at the sky… and smile.

Another flash, another stop, and another smile.

Finally, the mother called out, “What are you doing?”

The child answered:

“I’m smiling for G-d. He keeps taking pictures of me.”

Instead of fear, the child saw a moment with G-d.

The Message of the Cloud

This idea connects beautifully with this week’s Torah reading.

This Shabbat, we read the double portion Vayakhel–Pekudei, concluding the second book of the Torah, Book of Exodus. When we finish the book we proclaim:

“Chazak, Chazak, Venitchazek!” — Strength, strength, and may we be strengthened.

This Shabbat, we also read Parshat HaChodesh, announcing the arrival of the month of Nissan, the month of redemption and miracles for the Jewish people.

The Torah concludes with a powerful image:

“The cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the glory of G-d filled the Mishkan.”

Why a cloud?

Because a cloud represents darkness that hides the sun. Yet the Torah teaches that even within the cloud, the Divine Presence can dwell.

The Jewish people looked into the darkness—and discovered G-d within it.

If clouds ever appear over your life, do not despair.

Above every cloud, the sun still shines.

And sometimes, within the cloud itself, we encounter G-d.

The Power of a Question

Elie Wiesel once told a story about a young Chassid who devoted his life to studying Torah.

One night, he suddenly closed his book, ran into the town square, and cried out:

“I cannot go on studying until I know one thing: What is the meaning of life?”

People tried to calm him, but nothing worked. Finally, they sent him to the Rebbe.

When he asked the Rebbe the question, the Rebbe stood up and gave him a gentle slap.

“Rebbe, why did you slap me?”

The Rebbe answered:

“You fool! You have such a good question—why exchange it for an answer?
It is the answers that separate people. The questions unite them.”

Sometimes the question itself is part of the journey through the cloud.

Courage in Our Time

Thinking about courage reminds me of the remarkable story of Catherine Perez-Shakdam, a Jewish woman who reportedly infiltrated the inner circles of Iran.

Born in France to a Jewish family, she eventually gained access to powerful political and military figures by presenting herself as a sympathetic journalist.

Through intelligence she allegedly gathered, critical information reached Israeli intelligence services, helping expose dangerous threats.

Eventually, Iranian authorities realized they had been infiltrated—but by then she had vanished.

To many observers, it reads like a spy novel. Yet the deeper lesson is clear:

When a person knows their mission, they can walk fearlessly even into darkness.

The Power of One Mitzvah

Not all of us are spies or heroes.

But every one of us can bring light into the world.

A musician in upstate New York was performing in a bar in Poughkeepsie when news broke that Israel had begun striking Iranian nuclear facilities.

Even though no one in the audience looked Jewish, he paused the show and asked everyone to pray for peace and commit to one act of kindness.

Then he played “Hevenu Shalom Aleichem” and explained its meaning.

That night, he had a dream that the Rebbe thanked him. The Rebbe told him that his words inspired a Jewish woman in the audience to light Shabbat candles for the first time in fifty years.

The next morning, he dismissed the dream.

But on Sunday, he received a message from a woman in the audience.

She wrote that his words had inspired her to light Shabbat candles that Friday night for the first time since her Bat Mitzvah.

He concluded:

“We should always speak positively in public, because we never know who might be listening.”

Smiling Through the Storm

The lesson is powerful.

A child looks at lightning and smiles.

The Jewish people look at clouds and discover G-d’s presence.

One brave woman walks into darkness with courage.

One musician inspires a mitzvah that lights up the world.

Life will always have storms.

But if we look upward, even in the lightning, we may discover something amazing.

Perhaps, just perhaps,

G-d is taking a picture.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Lion Awoke a Second Time

Fri, 6 Mar 2026 6:00:00 AM

Wow, how it has all begun to unfold.

For decades, a generation grew up doubting whether this land truly belonged to them, and compromises that cost us so dearly in blood and sacrifice.

Yet it now seems that we are reaching a turning point. The Rebbe’s visionary words are beginning to materialize before our eyes.

So, the question is: What now? Where do we go after the second war with Iran?

This week, the writer and Chabadnik Nir Menussi shared a powerful idea in a Zoom lecture.

He suggested that the return of the Jewish people to their land unfolds in three stages.

The first stage was a national refuge.
The founders of the State of Israel wanted safety. After centuries of persecution, the Holocaust, and relentless antisemitism, Jews wanted a place under the sun where they could live in peace. That is why they blurred Jewish identity into a broader “Israeli” identity. They did not dream of transforming the world; they wanted to survive.

Just let us eat falafel in peace.

According to Menussi, this stage lasted until October 7. And then the dream shattered. The illusion exploded, and the price was terrible.

Painful as it is, reality is pushing us toward something far greater.

For years, we imagined ourselves as a “villa in the jungle.” We believed we could remain safe while the jungle remained unchanged.

But that illusion collapsed. We now understand that we cannot simply manage the conflict or hide behind the Iron Dome.

This brings us to the second stage: Israel as a regional power.

Today, Israel is reshaping the Middle East. It confronts Hamas, Hezbollah, Syria, Lebanon, and Iran. The language has shifted. No longer merely survival—now it is leadership and transformation.

Germany’s Chancellor said it openly this week: Israel is doing the dirty work for the entire world. Many others know it as well, even if they do not say it aloud.

But even this is not the final stage.

The third stage is far greater.

After becoming a refuge and then a regional power, Israel must become a global beacon.

The Jewish people were never meant merely to survive. Our mission is to radiate blessing, Torah, faith, peace, and holiness to the entire world. As G-d promised Abraham: “Through you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

It is the fulfillment of the verse: “From Zion shall go forth Torah.”

To reach that stage, we must leave behind the mindset of trauma and survival and step into a broader consciousness—one that elevates humanity.

But this also requires humility. We must not become intoxicated with power. The danger is to fall into the illusion of “my strength and the might of my hand.” Our destiny is greater than that.

The world is watching.
And it is waiting.

Operation “Am Kalavi” may have been over seven months ago, or perhaps not entirely. Because when a lion awakens and roars, it does not fall asleep so quickly.

Something has changed within the Jewish people.

A new consciousness has emerged—and it will not disappear.

One of the first to sense this shift is the Prime Minister himself. Listen carefully to how Benjamin Netanyahu has been speaking in recent days. His language has changed.

At his first press conference after the beginning of bombings in Iran in partnership with the American Air Force, he opened with an unexpected memory:

“Dear citizens of Israel. When I was first elected Prime Minister, I participated in the March of the Living at Auschwitz. There, I suddenly felt a strong need to wrap myself in a tallit. I wrapped myself in it and recited: Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad.”

Then he continued:

“Ten days ago, just hours before embarking on the historic operation against the evil regime in Iran, I went to the Western Wall. Again, I felt a strong need to wrap myself in a tallit.”

When I first saw the photo of him wrapped in a tallit at the Wall, I wondered about it. We are accustomed to seeing prime ministers wearing a kippah there, but a tallit?

Netanyahu himself answered the question:

“I prayed for the success of our heroic pilots, our soldiers and commanders, for the security of our country and the peace of our people.

At the end of the press conference, he added something even more striking:

“The most important faction in the Knesset is ‘Sayata Dishmaya’—Divine help.”

He spoke of the bravery of soldiers and citizens, the support of allies, and the help of Hashem.

Some dismissed his words as politics.

But I believe him.

After everything Israel has experienced in recent months, why assume that the Jewish spark cannot awaken within the Prime Minister as well?

After all, it has awakened in Jews across the world, even the most distant and assimilated ones.

And consider what was expected.

Each life lost is an entire world. But when one considers the scale of what could have been, the conclusion is unavoidable:

The operation is now successful beyond all imagination.

It is a chain of miracles.

This is not one miracle or two. It is a cascade of one miracle resting upon another.

Some we know about.
Others we may never know.

Think of the attempted assassination of Donald Trump during the election rally. Imagine if the bullet had not missed by a few centimeters. Where might the world be today?

That alone is one miracle among thousands.

Here is another astonishing moment.

Israeli intelligence operatives used a fake phone call to summon the entire senior leadership, including Khameini the Supreme Iranian leader.

and Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Aerospace Force, to an emergency meeting in a fortified bunker outside Tehran.

Forty top commanders arrived.

Moments before Israel launched its opening strikes, that bunker was hit with a precise airstrike.

All were eliminated, including the Supreme Iranian Leader, the Murderer Khameini.

With the entire missile command wiped out, no one remained to order the massive retaliation Iran had planned.

A catastrophe was avoided.

Yet precisely at moments like this, we must be careful.

After the miracles of the Six-Day War, Israel fell into arrogance—and soon after came the shock of the Yom Kippur War.

Today, the trajectory is reversed. We descended into the abyss of October 7, and from there rose to astonishing victories.

But the danger of arrogance remains.

That is why it was so significant to hear the Prime Minister publicly thank the Creator of the world again.

Perhaps he experienced his own Queen Esther moment when Mordechai told her:

“Who knows if it was for this very moment that you attained royalty?”

We are living through a time of massive Jewish awakening.

This is not a moment for passivity.

It is a time for the Jewish people to rise again like lions, rediscover our deepest essence, and illuminate the entire world with faith, holiness, and truth.

May we see it fully realized speedily in our days.

Shabbat Shalom, AM ISRAEL CHAI!

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

www.chabadgn.com | Blogs | Parasha Insights

The Power of Believing in Others

No Brother or Sister Left Behind

The Five Languages of Love

The People Who Changed The World!

The Three Blessings That Can Save a Child

Are You Chosen — or Just Jewish?

When the Most Powerful Nation Honors Shabbat​​​​​​​

Your Story Is Not Over

The Promise Hidden Inside the Curse

The Wallet

When Power Meets Faith

How to Respect the People We Love?

The Night That Can Redefine Your Life

Choosing Hope on Seder Night

WHERE DO YOU BELONG?

Are You Finding G-d in the Storm?

The Lion Awoke a Second Time

When the Most Powerful Nation Honors Shabbat