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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

Do You Have A Destiny

Fri, 27 Feb 2026 6:00:00 AM

This Shabbat is called Shabbat Zachor — the Shabbat of Remembrance. It is the only time during the year that the Torah explicitly commands every individual to come and hear the public reading of Zachor this week.

Synagogues fill as we fulfill the mitzvah to hear: “Remember what Amalek did to you on the way when you came out of Egypt.”

First, Zachor is our annual confrontation with a truth the modern world resists: absolute evil exists. The Torah does not allow moral confusion. There is good, and there is evil. There is truth, and there is falsehood. Not every narrative can be contained. There are not always “two sides.” When there is terror, murder, and barbarism, the command is clear: “Blot out the memory of Amalek… do not forget.”

Painfully, some still do not grasp this. Even those who do often lack resolve. Since 1967, Israeli governments — including the present one — have too often been defined by ambivalence, even when G-d performed open miracles and world leaders signaled unprecedented support. Moments of clarity demand courage.

Who is Amalek? We read this before Purim because Haman descended from Amalek. Amalek is not ancient history. Absolute evil did not retire. It wore the face of Amalek, then Haman, then Hitler. Today, it wears the faces of Hamas, Hezbollah, Iran, the PA, and many in Judea, Samaria, and East Jerusalem who would celebrate our destruction, Heaven forbid.

The Torah warns that once we feel secure in our land, we may forget. Internal quarrels become juicier. But your ideological rival is not Amalek. Disputes among brothers are not wars against a murderous enemy. Know what is essential and what is secondary. Focus on the real threat.

When does Amalek strike? When we are “tired and weary and do not fear G-d.” When we are burnt out, cynical, and spiritually numb. Amalek attacks exhaustion. Every act of joy, building, faith, and identity is an act of resistance.

The Inner Amalek

There is also an inner Amalek.

The Alter Rebbe explains that Amalek plants a seed in the Jewish psyche. Amalek shares the numerical value of ram — exalted. Amalek speaks piously: G-d is lofty, infinite — too elevated to care about your daily life.

In a powerful Purim talk, the Rebbe exposed this voice. Amalek whispers: It is beneath G-d’s dignity to care how long you wait between meat and milk. To care whether you carry on Shabbat. To care about your struggles. Amalek is also safek, doubt. Maybe G-d is absent from your darkness.

The Hidden Face

The Gemara asks: Where is Esther hinted at in the Torah? The answer: I will hide my face.

Esther represents Divine concealment. Her book famously omits G-d’s name, yet records the first genocidal decree against the Jewish people. Purim unfolds entirely in exile.

And yet one sentence pierces the darkness. Mordechai tells Esther: “If you remain silent, relief will come from elsewhere… But who knows — perhaps for this very moment you attained royalty?”

This is divine providence. You are here for a reason, in this place, at this time, with these gifts and these dangers.

Rambam teaches that each of us must see ourselves and the world as perfectly balanced. One deed can tip the scale. Esther did not know history would hinge on her courage. We never know which moment will change everything.

A Story, a book in Gaza

For 505 days, Omer Shem Tov, abducted by Hamas on October 7, 2023, endured brutal captivity in underground tunnels — often in solitary confinement. In one narrow cell, he had no electricity, only a flashlight that died frequently. Biscuits for food. Salty water. He did not know how he would survive.

Then he found a lifeline: a Dvar Malchus booklet left behind by an IDF soldier, Yoel Elbaz.

Hamas found it and, inexplicably, gave it to Omer. They also gave him a Hebrew copy of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest, which he read five times, and a booklet with Tefillat HaDerech and Psalm 100. But the Dvar Malchus became his anchor. He read it again and again.

For months, he and fellow hostages made Kiddush over a single bottle of grape juice. On Yom Kippur, he wanted desperately to fast but did not know the date. When Israeli radio went silent, he realized he had missed it and felt crushed. He prayed constantly. After about 50 days, he was suddenly moved.

The booklet was Vaeira 5784. It opened with: “I have heard the groaning of the children of Israel… I will free you… I will redeem you.” It also included the Rebbe’s discourse, Basi Legani, teaching that Divine light reaches even the lowest abyss.

The Rebbe quoted Psalm 139: “If I ascend to heaven, You are there; if I descend to the abyss, You are there. Darkness is not dark for You.”

Is there a darker abyss than Hamas tunnels in Gaza?

How does a soldier leave a booklet, Hamas hands it to a hostage, and the Rebbe’s words about light in the abyss reach a Jew in hell? We cannot fathom it. But somehow: “If I descend to the abyss, You are there.”

The discourse also traces Joseph, kidnapped, thrown into pits, imprisoned underground, yet never severed from G-d. Tanya teaches that every Jew carries an otzar, a hidden treasure of awe, a “piece of G-d literally.” Like oil that never mixes with water, the Jewish soul cannot be diluted. It may be submerged, but it rises.

Is this not what we witnessed in the tunnels?

The Lesson

Amalek says G-d is distant and uncaring.

Esther says: You are here for this moment.

The Torah says: Remember.

Each of us must ask: Why did Hashem place me here? What is my task? You need not be a queen. You can be Esther. Or a soldier named Yoel. Or anyone else. One small act may ripple beyond imagination.

Even in hester panim, the call remains: “U’mi yodeia im l’et kazot higa’at lamalchut?”

When Hashem calls, may we answer: Hineini. I am here.

May we walk tall as Jews, unafraid. May we erase Amalek, within and without, with clarity, courage, and unwavering faith. And may we see the end of all evil, speedily in our days.

Shabbat Shalom and A Happy Purim,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Laser Light and Golden Wings

Fri, 20 Feb 2026 6:00:00 AM

A Texas farmer once toured England. He met a local farmer and asked proudly, “How big is your farm?”

“Thirty-five acres,” the Englishman replied.

“Thirty-five acres?” the Texan scoffed. “Why, I can get into my truck at 8:00 in the morning, start driving, and by noon, I’m still on my farm. I eat lunch, keep driving, and at 5:00 PM I’m still on my farm.”

The Englishman nodded sympathetically.

“Yes… I once had a truck like that.”

Perspective changes everything.

And sometimes the Torah expands our perspective so dramatically that we fail to notice what it’s trying to show us.

The 187-Day Party

At the opening of Megillas Esther, King Achashverosh throws a feast.

Not an evening. Not a week.

One hundred and eighty days.

And when that concludes, he follows it with another seven.

One hundred and eighty-seven days of spectacle, intoxication, indulgence.

And the Megillah does not summarize it.

It lingers.

White linen. Blue wool. Purple cords.
Silver rods. Marble columns.
Gold and silver couches.
Goblets — each one different.
Wine, “according to the bounty of the king.”

Why do we need to know the upholstery?

The Torah is not a travel brochure. It does not waste words on ambiance unless something eternal is hidden in the décor.

The only obvious narrative outcome of this entire bacchanal is that Vashti is executed.

So why the obsessive detail?

Another Structure of Gold

Around this same time of year, we read about another structure filled with detail: the Mishkan.

There, the precision makes sense. The Menorah’s cups and blossoms. The priestly garments. The measurements of the Altar. It is G-d’s dwelling place.

And at the very epicenter — beyond courtyard, beyond chamber, beyond curtain — stood the Holy of Holies.

And within it, the Aron.

And atop the Aron — the Keruvim.

Two golden childlike figures. Wings outstretched upward. Faces toward one another.

And here is the stunning part:

They were hammered from the very same piece of gold as the Ark’s cover.

Not soldered.
Not attached.
Not decorative add-ons.

One piece.

And yet the Ten Commandments forbid graven images.

So why place sculpted figures in the holiest place on earth?

And why insist they emerge organically from the Ark itself?

The Battle Over Education

This is not architecture.

It is a manifesto on education.

Every generation wrestles with the same question:

Do we protect our children from the world?
Or prepare them to enter it?

Do we insulate them?
Or let them explore?

Some insist that absolute openness breeds compassion and maturity.

Others argue that such openness breeds confusion and spiritual drift.

Must we choose between insulation and assimilation?

The Keruvim whisper: False choice.

They were not glued onto Torah.

They were hammered from Torah.

Judaism cannot be something a child later attaches to their identity.

It must be their identity.

Torah is not an external legal system imposed upon a resisting human being.

It is the operating manual of the soul.

When a nutritionist limits your diet, he is not oppressing you. He is aligning you with your biology.

And when you sneak cake at Kiddush while your wife isn’t looking?

You might fool your wife some of the time.

You will not fool your metabolism any of the time.

Torah’s “limits” are not external restrictions. They are internal alignments.

If I violate them, I am not defying G-d.

I am fragmenting myself.

The Keruvim teach: our children must not feel Torah as something pasted onto them.

They must feel it as something grown from within them.

The Laser

The Lubavitcher Rebbe offered a breathtaking analogy.

Light naturally scatters. It diffuses. It weakens.

A laser restricts light — channels it into a single direction — and suddenly that same light can cut through steel.

Restriction does not diminish power.

It concentrates it.

A life without parameters scatters into noise.

A life of focused discipline becomes transformative.

Torah is spiritual laser technology.

The violin string must be tightened to sing.

Halacha does not silence you.

It tunes you.

The Nightingale

A king once wished to reward a peasant. Gold and pearls meant nothing to him.

So he gave the peasant his most treasured possession — a nightingale whose song made life luminous.

Later the king visited.

“How was my gift?”

“The meat was tough,” the peasant said. “But I cooked it with potatoes. It gave the stew flavor.”

You can receive something priceless — and reduce it to stew.

Torah can become garnish.

Or it can become song.

Wings

But the Keruvim were not statues frozen in place.

They had wings.

Spread upward.

Judaism does not want timid children who never leave the nest.

It wants flight.

For centuries, Jews were confined by external forces. Professions were closed. Cities restricted. Staying “inside” was not a choice — it was reality.

Today, the world is open.

So must we recreate walls?

The Keruvim answer: If Torah is organic, flight is not a threat.

If Judaism is identity, not accessory, wings only elevate.

Integrated Torah produces expansive souls.

Back to the Party

And now we return to Achashverosh.

Why the marble? Why the gold goblets? Why 187 days?

Because he went all in.

He held nothing back.

His motives were corrupt. His celebration was hollow.

But he understood something most people miss:

If you are going to do something, do it fully.

The Megillah records his excess not to glorify decadence but to teach intensity.

If even a Persian despot refuses mediocrity, how much more must we refuse smallness?

Do not live cautiously.

Do not ration your greatness.

If you can raise $ 18 million, do not stop at $ 17 million.

If you can write, write to ignite.

If you can educate, educate with fire.

If you can love, love without calculation.

Do not set small goals to protect yourself from failure.

Go all in.

The Archer

And then the poem:

“Your children are not your children…”

We are bows.

They are arrows.

The Archer bends us — not to break us — but to launch something beyond us.

The Keruvim face each other — connection.

They stretch upward — aspiration.

They emerge from the Ark — identity.

And Achashverosh?

He teaches intensity.

Put it together, and you have the formula:

Root them deeply.

Fuse them organically.

Strengthen them structurally.

Then let them soar ferociously.

And when you live — live like a laser.

Live like a king who refuses mediocrity.

Live like a bow bent by G-d Himself.

All in.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Power of a Compliment

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 6:00:00 AM

Abie and Sadie worked for years in the shmata business. Finally, they made it big, very big. To gain a little cultural legitimacy, they donated generously to the local orchestra and were invited to an elegant, black-tie dinner.

Sadie scans the room, searching for an opening. She overhears a group of women discussing Beethoven. This is her moment.

“Beethoven?” she says confidently. “I know him very well. Just the other day, I saw him on the number five bus going to the beach.”

Silence. Embarrassment. Then laughter.

Abie is mortified. In the car, he explodes:
“Couldn’t you sit quietly? You had to talk?”

“What’s wrong?” Sadie protests. “I did see Beethoven on the number five bus!”

“You ignoramus!” Abie cries. “Everybody knows the number five bus doesn’t go to the beach!”

Sadie wasn’t wrong about Beethoven. She misunderstood the route.

Many of us do the same thing with pain. We don’t misunderstand the event. We misunderstand the route it takes inside us.

In Parshat Mishpatim, we read:

“You shall not oppress any widow or orphan. If you oppress him, and he cries out to Me, I will surely hear his cry.”

But the Hebrew is shocking. Literally translated:

“If oppress you will oppress him; if cry he will cry to Me; hear will I hear his cry.”

Every keyword is doubled.

The Torah never writes like this. Not once elsewhere do we find all the central words in a verse repeated for no apparent reason. The same message could have been conveyed with half the words.

Even stranger: the verse is elliptical. It threatens punishment but never states what the punishment will be. The sentence remains open-ended.

Why?

Because the Torah is describing something that does not end.

Rashi explains: The Torah mentions widows and orphans because they are vulnerable, but the principle applies to all.

When you hurt someone who has a secure, nurturing support system, the pain may leave a bruise. It hurts, but it heals.

But when you wound someone who has no safe place to process that hurt, an orphan, a widow, a child without emotional protection, a vulnerable adult, that pain does not fade.

It repeats.

It embeds.

It becomes internal.

The oppression continues long after the oppressor has walked away.

Millennia before neuroscience, the Torah tells us: trauma rewires the brain.

The insult becomes self-talk.
The voice of the critic becomes the voice inside.

At a bar mitzvah, I was dancing with the father, a classmate from school. Suddenly, I noticed he was crying.

He asked me, “Did anything come of me?”

I was stunned. “Look at your life! Your family! Your business! Your community!”

He told me that in school, an authority figure said to him, “You’re wasting your time. Nothing will ever come of you.”

The next year, the man repeated it.

Thirty-five years later, those words still echoed.

“Not a day goes by,” he said, “that I don’t hear it.”

That is the Torah’s double language.

“If you oppress, you will oppress him.”
It does not happen once. It keeps happening.

“If cry he will cry.” The first cry never ends.

God hears not only the original cry but the lifelong echo.

The sentence has no ending because the trauma has no natural ending.

Modern psychology calls it negative self-talk. The running internal monologue of criticism and self-contempt.

Where did it come from?

Often from a parent, teacher, or authority figure whose words we absorbed deeply. Over time, their voice became ours.

One man I know grew up feeling constantly criticized. Now married to a gentle woman, he still reacts defensively whenever she offers the slightest correction. He believes he is responding to her, but he is responding to a decades-old voice in his own head.

He is imprisoned not by his wife, but by internalized criticism.

The Torah understood this thousands of years ago.

You must challenge the inner critic.

One powerful response is: “You’re partly right.”

Yes, you’re imperfect. Everyone is. But you are not only your flaws. Making room for your strengths disrupts the tyranny of negative self-talk.

The Rebbe would say: “You are not allowed to gossip about yourself either.” Not even inside your own mind.

Negative self-talk feels authentic. Positive self-talk feels fake. But the opposite is true. The negative voice often came from outside and was implanted within. Reclaiming a compassionate inner voice is not inauthentic; it is reclaiming your true self.

That is why every morning in Jewish prayer, we affirm the purity of the soul. Before the world speaks to us, we speak truth to ourselves.

If trauma can be tattooed into the brain, so can love.

Never underestimate a genuine word of affirmation.

A family once visited the Rebbe on Chanukah. He offered the child coins. The child refused. After several attempts, the Rebbe smiled and said, “This is a good sign he is not someone who craves money.”

He reframed what could have been labeled a flaw into a virtue. He protected the child’s self-image.

That is leadership.

Clint Pulver could not sit still in class. He tapped constantly. Teachers disciplined him. The principal told him to sit on his hands.

One teacher, Mr. Jensen, kept him after class. Clint expected punishment.

Instead, Mr. Jensen opened his drawer and handed him drumsticks.

“In my opinion,” he said, “you don’t have a problem. You were created to be a drummer.”

That sentence changed Clint’s life. He became a renowned professional drummer.

A lesser teacher saw disruption. A wise teacher saw destiny.

There is an angel in the marble of every child.

Benjamin Zander, conductor of the Boston Philharmonic, tells of a woman who survived Auschwitz. On the train to the camps, she scolded her little brother for losing his shoes.

It was the last thing she ever said to him. He did not survive.

She made a vow: “I will never say anything that could not stand as the last thing I ever say.”

Can we live that way perfectly? No. But we can live toward it.

We are all canvases of experience.

Scars fade.

Tattoos remain.

The Torah forbids tattooing the body. But it also warns us not to tattoo the soul with cruelty, with contempt, with words that never stop echoing.

“If you oppress you will oppress him… hear will I hear.”

God hears every cry, including the one we still whisper to ourselves decades later.

And if negativity can be etched so deeply, how much more so kindness.

A single sentence can imprison a person for life.

A single sentence can set an angel free.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Defending Israel When It Was Hardest

Fri, 6 Feb 2026 6:00:00 AM

The Haftorah of this week’s portion, Yitro, tells the story of one of Israel’s greatest prophets, Yeshayahu. Isaiah cries out:

“Woe is me; I am lost! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts.”

An angel takes a burning coal from the altar, touches Isaiah’s lips, and declares his sin purged. Then God asks, “Whom shall I send?” and Isaiah answers, “Here am I; send me.”

What was Isaiah’s sin? And why did his mouth need to be purified by fire?

This question inspired one of the most powerful and compassionate letters in Jewish history—written by Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, the Rambam.

Maimonides (1135–1204) lived through one of the darkest periods in Jewish history. Born in Cordova at the end of the Golden Age of Spanish Jewry,

he witnessed its violent collapse with the rise of the Almohads. Jews were given a brutal choice: convert to Islam or die.

Communities across Spain and North Africa were destroyed. Some Jews fled; many were forced to convert outwardly while secretly remaining Jewish.

These forced converts, anusim, prayed, studied Torah, and observed mitzvot in hiding.

During this time, a rabbi living safely outside Spain wrote a devastating letter. Responding to a secret Jew who asked whether his hidden mitzvot had value,

the rabbi ruled harshly: the forced converts were idolaters; their prayers were worthless; their mitzvot were sins.

Even entering a mosque, he wrote, rendered a Jew an apostate. According to him, every Jew was obligated to die rather than accept Islam.

This letter crushed the morale of Spanish Jewry. Many concluded that if they were condemned regardless, they might as well abandon Judaism entirely.

At age 27, Maimonides responded with Igeret HaShmad—the Letter of Apostasy. Unlike his usual calm tone, this letter burns with emotion, empathy, and moral clarity.

It is a fierce defense of persecuted Jews and a rebuke of religious cruelty.

The Rambam praises those who kept Judaism secretly and condemns the rabbi’s arrogance and lack of sensitivity.

He insists that Islam is not idolatry, and therefore Jews were not obligated to give up their lives rather than convert under duress.

Even one who fails to sanctify God’s name out of fear, he writes, deserves no punishment—just as a woman violated against her will bears no guilt.

Even more radically, the Rambam asserts that every mitzvah a Jew performs has value, even if that Jew sins elsewhere, and certainly when the sin is coerced.

He urges Jews to flee oppressive lands when possible, but insists they must never be shamed or cast out of the Jewish people.

At the emotional peak of the letter, the Rambam explains why Isaiah’s lips needed purification. Throughout history, prophets who criticized Israel were rebuked by God: Moses, Elijah, and Isaiah himself.

Isaiah was punished not for calling himself impure but for saying he lived “among a people of unclean lips.”

The message is clear: you cannot lead a people you do not love.

“If such punishment befell the pillars of the world,” writes the Rambam, “what will be the fate of one who casually condemns entire Jewish communities?”

A prophet is not a detached critic. He speaks from within, not from above. He is the voice of God to the people and the voice of the people to God. Leadership requires solidarity, faith, and love.

God was teaching Isaiah, just as He taught Moses and Elijah: It is not whether they believe in you that matters, but whether you believe in them.

The Rambam’s letter defines the task of every Jewish leader and teacher: to defend the people, see their goodness, and raise them through love rather than condemnation.

“Cleanse your lips,” says God to Isaiah, “before you speak for Me.”
Because God believes in His people—and so must His prophets.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

When the Ordinary Becomes Divine?

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 6:00:00 AM

When the Torah describes the splitting of the sea, in this week's portion, Beshalach, it says:

“And the children of Israel went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left.”

But later, after the miracle has concluded and the Jewish people sing the Song of the Sea, the Torah records their words differently:

“For the horses of Pharaoh, with his chariots and horsemen, went into the sea… but the children of Israel walked on dry land, in the midst of the sea.”

There is a subtle yet profound shift in language.
At first, they entered the sea, and it became dry land.
Later, they describe themselves as walking on dry land inside the sea.

Why the reversal?

Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk, one of the great Chassidic masters, offers a breathtaking explanation.

The purpose of the splitting of the sea was not merely to perform a dramatic miracle—to rescue the Jews and drown their enemies. Its deeper purpose was to permanently transform the Jewish consciousness.

The parting of the sea was meant to teach that walking on dry land is no less miraculous than walking through a parted sea.

We are astonished when water stands like walls. But we are not astonished when the earth supports our every step—despite the staggering complexity, precision, and balance required for life to exist at all.

The Baal Shem Tov famously taught:
“The greatest miracle is nature—only it is a miracle that repeats itself.”

The miracle of the sea was meant to wake us up to the miracle of the ordinary.

The Daily Blessing

Every morning we bless G-d:

“Who spreads the earth upon the waters.”

We pause, before our first step of the day, to thank G-d for something we usually take entirely for granted: the fact that the earth exists beneath our feet.

The Vilna Gaon explained that at the earth’s core lies a molten, liquid mass—meaning the entire planet is quite literally supported by “water.” Modern science only confirmed this centuries later.

Every moment the world exists is a miracle sustained by Divine will.

The Seven Wonders

A group of junior high students once listed the Seven Wonders of the World—pyramids, cathedrals, canyons, and walls.

One quiet girl hesitated. When asked, she read her list:

To touch
To taste
To see
To hear
To feel
To laugh
To love

The room fell silent.

Einstein said it best:
“There are only two ways to live your life—one as though nothing is a miracle, the other as though everything is.”

The Shift in Consciousness

Now we understand the Torah’s language.

At first, the Jews went into the sea on dry land.
That was the miracle.

But afterward, they sang that they walked on dry land inside the sea.
That was the transformation.

From that moment on, every step on land felt like a miracle equal to walking through water.

Peter Himmelman once challenged a Chabad rabbi with sarcasm:
“Can the Rebbe fly?”

The answer stunned him:
“I’ve never seen the Rebbe fly. But for a tzaddik, walking on the ground is no less miraculous than flying.”

The miracle is not defying nature—it is recognizing G-d within it.

When the Alter Rebbe was imprisoned by the Czar, he once asked a guard to stop a boat so he could recite Kiddush Levanah. The guard refused—until the boat stopped on its own.

Yet the Rebbe waited until the guard willingly stopped the boat again.

Why?

Because the ultimate purpose is not supernatural spectacle, but finding G-d within the natural order.

The Baal Shem Tov once crossed a river using a handkerchief as a raft. A simple innkeeper, witnessing this, crossed the same way—without even realizing a miracle had occurred.

The Baal Shem Tov concluded that the man’s simple prayers were already perfect.

When you walk on dry land as though you are walking through the sea, you can walk through the sea as though it were dry land.

Don’t wait for miracles.

Your life is a miracle.

Every step.
Every breath.
Every ordinary moment.

The splitting of the sea did not end when the waters closed—it began when the Jews learned how to walk afterward.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

DO YOU HAVE BARRIERS IN LIFE?

Thu, 22 Jan 2026 9:00:00 AM

The opening verse of the tenth chapter of Exodus—this week’s Torah portion, Bo—contains one of the most unsettling and psychologically profound statements in the entire Torah:

“And G-d said to Moses: Come to Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his servants, in order that I might show My signs in their midst…”

Two glaring questions immediately demand attention.

First: Why does G-d say, “Come to Pharaoh”?
Would it not have been more appropriate—more grammatically and logically correct—to say “Go to Pharaoh”? Lech el Pharaoh, not Bo el Pharaoh.

Second—and far more troubling—the sequence of the verse seems backwards.
“Come to Pharaoh because I have hardened his heart.” How does Pharaoh’s hardened heart justify approaching him? On the contrary—if G-d hardened Pharaoh’s heart, that should be a reason not to go.

The Torah itself seems to contradict this formulation earlier in Exodus, where G-d clearly states the order: first Moses speaks to Pharaoh; then G-d hardens his heart to multiply His signs. Why is the Torah suddenly reversing the logic?

The question is not grammatical.
It is existential.

Moses’ Fear

The Zohar, the foundational text of Kabbalah, offers a daring and deeply human answer.

Moses was afraid.

Not mildly uncomfortable. Not hesitant.
Terrified.

Terrified to confront Pharaoh, the embodiment of raw power, cruelty, and unrestrained ego. G-d could not say to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh,” because Moses could not go alone.

So G-d says something radically different:

“Come to Pharaoh.”
Come with Me.

“I am not sending you,” G-d tells Moses.
“I am accompanying you.”

Hold My hand. Walk with Me. You are not facing this force alone.

And then G-d adds something even more startling:

“Come to Pharaoh, because I have hardened his heart.”

In other words:
The very thing you fear is the proof that I am present.

It Is All From Me

G-d was telling Moses something revolutionary:

Pharaoh is not the source of his own power.

His stubbornness, his cruelty, his resistance—these are not autonomous forces. They exist only because G-d allows them to exist. Pharaoh does not control reality. He merely occupies a role within it.

“I hardened his heart.”

Not him.
Not a chance.
Not politics.
Not personality.

Me.

And why would G-d do this—if the goal is redemption?

“So that I might show My signs in their midst.”

The resistance itself is what makes redemption visible.

So why should Moses be afraid?

What he is facing is not an enemy—it is a Divine setup.

Hardships

This teaching, emphasised repeatedly by the Lubavitcher Rebbe, is not ancient theology. It is a survival manual for modern life.

Each of us meets Pharaohs.

People. Circumstances. Diagnoses. Bureaucracies. Inner demons. External pressure. Situations that refuse to budge and seem designed to crush momentum and joy.

They trigger fear. Anger. Paralysis. Resentment.

That reaction is human.

But it is not the final perspective.

There is always a third lens—one that changes everything.

Vodka Story

Why vodka?

Because vodka refuses to freeze.

Everything around it turns solid and immobile—but it stays fluid.

That is not chemistry.
That is a life lesson.

The question is not whether the freezer exists.
The question is how you respond when you’re placed inside it.

Portals, No Barriers

“When I encounter a Pharaoh in my life,” the Torah is teaching, “I must remember one thing above all else:

‘I hardened his heart.’”

This obstacle was not sent to block you.
It was sent to activate you.

Not to stop your mission—but to draw out powers you didn’t know you possessed.

These are not barriers.
They are portals.

Not blockades.
Coordinates.

Not punishment.
Preparation.

The Donkey

Life will shovel dirt on you.

Guaranteed.

The question is not whether the dirt will come, but whether you will let it bury you or elevate you.

Shake it off.
Step up.

Every challenge contains concealed Divine energy. Every hardened heart hides a seed of growth. Every pit can become a ladder.

Yes—it is exhausting.
Yes—it is frightening.
But it is never meaningless.

So do not surrender composure.
Do not surrender hope.
And never surrender your sense of mission.

Instead, ask the only question that matters:

Why did G-d bring me here—and who am I being asked to become now?

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Small Act That Changes the World

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 6:00:00 PM

A patient once said to his doctor after being saved from a serious illness,
“Since we’ve become such close friends, I won’t insult you by paying you. But as a sign of my gratitude, I put you in my will.”

“That’s very kind,” said the doctor. “But give me back the prescription—I’d like to make a small change.”

Another man came to the doctor complaining of terrible forgetfulness.
“Yesterday I forgot where I live. The day before, I forgot I even went to synagogue. And earlier in the week, I forgot I was supposed to play golf!”

“Oy, doctor, what should I do?”

“Pay me now,” the doctor replied.

Ezekiel: A Prophet in Exile

Yechezkel—Ezekiel—was one of the greatest prophets in Jewish history. His prophecies span 22 critical years, from 592 to 570 BCE, a period marked by catastrophe.

In 597 BCE, Nebuchadnezzar exiled thousands of Jews from Jerusalem to Babylonia, including Yechezkel and the Jewish elite. Eleven years later, in 586 BCE, Jerusalem was destroyed, and the First Temple was burned.

At that time, the Jewish people had two prophets:
Jeremiah, who remained in Jerusalem and witnessed the destruction firsthand, composed Eicha.
and Ezekiel, living in exile by the Chebar River in Babylonia.

Ezekiel’s final recorded prophecy, delivered on the first of Nissan in 570 BCE—sixteen years after the Temple’s destruction—concludes this week’s Haftorah. And it tells a deeply puzzling story.

Superpowers and Strategy

Babylonia and Egypt were the superpowers of the ancient world. Israel lay between them, a strategic land bridge.

Nebuchadnezzar conquered Judea and destroyed the Temple. He then turned his attention to Tyre, a wealthy coastal empire. The siege lasted thirteen years. When Tyre finally fell, much of its wealth had been lost to the sea.

G-d then tells Ezekiel that, because Nebuchadnezzar fought so hard and gained no spoils, Egypt would be given to him as compensation. Egypt—arrogant, corrupt, and deceitful—had betrayed Israel by promising military support and then abandoning them.

Babylonia would conquer Egypt, plunder its riches, and humble its power.

And then the prophecy concludes with a surprising line:

“On that day, I will cause the horn of the House of Israel to blossom, and I will give you an open mouth among them; and they shall know that I am G-d.”

Meaning: when this prophecy comes true, the skeptics among the Jews will finally accept Ezekiel as a true prophet.

All This—for a Few Doubters?

This is astonishing. History repeats itself.

Two global superpowers clash. Empires fall. Millions are affected.
And the Torah says: one of the goals of all this is that a few skeptical Jews should finally believe in Ezekiel.

Really?

From a human perspective, that sounds insignificant. From the Torah’s perspective, it is not.

Big and Small

Judaism teaches a principle we might call spiritual relativity.

A speck of dust requires as much Divine energy to exist as a galaxy.
What we call “small” may be central to G-d’s plan.

The Baal Shem Tov taught:
A soul may descend into this world for 70 or 80 years just to do one favor for another Jew.

One favor.

Eighty years—for one act.

Where did he learn this?
From the final verse of Ezekiel’s prophecy: world-shaking events unfolding so that a few Jews would recognize the truth.

News Not Fit to Print

History teaches this again and again.

In 1842, Britain and China signed the Treaty of Nanjing, opening Shanghai to international trade. Hardly headline news for Jews.

Exactly 100 years later, Shanghai became the only city on earth that accepted Jewish refugees without visas. Sixty thousand Jews were saved from the Holocaust because of a treaty signed a century earlier.

Which story mattered more?

Four Words That Changed History

Martin Luther King Jr. prepared a careful speech in 1963. But when Mahalia Jackson shouted, “Tell them about the dream,” he went off script.

Four words—I have a dream—reshaped America.

A Missing Key

On the Titanic, the binoculars were locked away.
The officer who had the key forgot to hand it over when he left the ship.

One forgotten key.
Thousands of lives changed forever.

One Mitzvah

Maimonides writes that a single good deed can tip the scales for the entire world.

So we ask ourselves:
Is it worth the effort to help one Jew?
To smile at someone lonely?
To help a struggling family?
To inspire a mitzvah?

The answer of the Torah is unequivocal: Yes.

“A Jew Needs Help”

Rabbi Mendel Baumgarten once recalled a wealthy man who publicly apologized to the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

Why?

When the man lost everything paying for his brother’s cancer treatment, he placed a tiny ad in a Yiddish paper:
“A Jew needs help.”

No one responded—except the Rebbe.

An envelope of cash arrived days later.

Because sometimes, the entire purpose of a life—or even of history—is answering that call.

History Repeats

In January 1967, the Rebbe delivered a fiery talk about world events unfolding for the sake of a few Jews recognizing the truth.

Five months later came the Six-Day War.

Again in 1991, the Rebbe published this talk, four days before the Gulf War erupted. Again, he predicted safety, calm, and miracles. Again, events proved him right.

Even the skeptics listened.

The Lesson

We do not know which act is big and which is small.
Which story matters?
Which kindness changes history?

But Judaism teaches us this:

Sometimes the world turns
so that one Jew can believe,
One soul can be helped,
One mitzvah can be done.

And that is enough.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky