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The Hidden Secret of Joy: You Are Never Alone

Thu, 24 Sep 2026 11:01:00 AM

The Talmud states in the Talmud of Sukkah:

“One who did not see the joy of the Drawing of the Water never saw joy in his life. One who did not see Jerusalem in its glory never saw a beautiful city. One who did not see the Holy Temple in its full stature never saw a magnificent structure.”

What was this celebration?

When the Beis Hamikdash stood in Jerusalem, one of the highlights of Sukkos was the Pouring of the Water.

Throughout the year, the daily offerings in the Temple were accompanied by the pouring of wine upon the Altar. On Sukkos, water was poured as well.

But before the water was poured, something extraordinary took place.

The nights were filled with music, singing, dancing, and celebration. The Levites played music. Sages juggled torches. Huge lamps illuminated Jerusalem. Hundreds of thousands of Jews danced through the night.

As Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chanania recalled:

“For all the days of the water-drawing, our eyes saw no sleep.”

At daybreak, a procession descended to the Shiloach Spring, drew the water, and brought it back up to the Temple to be poured upon the Altar.

And the Talmud declares:

“One who did not see the joy of the water-drawing celebrations has not seen joy in his life.”

But this raises some very serious questions.

First: What does the Talmud actually mean?

Can someone really never experience true joy unless they witnessed the Simchas Beis HaShoeva? Can someone never see a beautiful city unless they saw Jerusalem in its glory?

Second: Can someone never see a magnificent structure unless they saw the Beis Hamikdash?

Did they really believe that no other experience in human life could produce comparable joy? What was so unique about this celebration that they could say: If you did not see it, you never saw joy?

Third: Why does the Talmud express itself negatively?

Why not say:

“The greatest joy in the world was the joy of the water-drawing.”

Instead, it says:

“If you did not see it, you never saw joy.”

Why speak about what people missed, rather than describing what they experienced?

Fourth: Why tell this to generations who could never experience it?

Was the purpose to make us feel that we missed something?

Of course not.

These are not merely colorful expressions, like saying, “If you weren't at the wedding, you never saw a wedding.”

When the Sages speak in the Talmud, their words are part of the Torah's roadmap for life.

Today, we will focus on the first statement:

“One who did not see the joy of the water-drawing has not seen joy in his life.”

And behind those words lies a profound lesson about what true joy really means. Why Water?

But the entire ceremony seems strange.

What was so joyous about pouring water on the Altar?

And there is an even greater question.

Wine is far more associated with celebration than water. Every day, wine was poured on the Altar. Yet there was no all-night celebration surrounding the wine.

On Sukkos, however, it was water that inspired singing, dancing, music, torches, and an entire night of celebration.

Why?

The Midrash gives us a fascinating answer.

The celebration of pouring water on the Altar was connected to the very beginning of Creation.

In the opening verses of Bereishis, the world is described as being covered with water:

“And the spirit of G-d hovered over the waters.”

Then, on the second day of Creation, G-d divided the waters—the heavenly waters above from the earthly waters below.

And the Midrash describes something extraordinary:

The lower waters cried.

They cried out:

“We, too, want to be close to G-d.”

G-d responded by promising that the lower waters would eventually have a role in the Temple—that water would be brought upon the Altar on Sukkos.

But this raises even more questions.

Since when do waters cry?

And if the separation was painful, why didn't G-d simply eliminate the separation?

How could the promise that water would one day be poured on the Altar possibly comfort the lower waters?

Clearly, this is not really a water story.

It is a story about us.

Just before Sukkot, a study was published about anxiety in America. It reported that many people experience anxiety so frequently that they wondered whether they might even have an undiagnosed anxiety disorder.

The triggers are familiar: work, finances, relationships, social pressure, and the constant comparison created by social media.

We worry about our jobs.

We worry about money.

We worry about our children.

We worry about our marriages.

We worry about our health.

We worry about what people think of us.

And sometimes, we even worry about the fact that we are worrying!

But Judaism asks us to go one level deeper.

What is the root of anxiety?

What is underneath all the different things that frighten us?

Imagine that we could take an X-ray not only of the mind, but of the soul.

We would discover something profound.

At the deepest level, much of our anxiety comes from one terrifying feeling:

“I am alone.”

Your spouse hangs up the phone, and you feel anxious.

Why?

Yes, perhaps because you were criticized.

But go deeper.

Why does that criticism hurt so much?

Because somewhere inside, you fear:

“Maybe I am not loved. Maybe I am alone.”

You are anxious about your job.

Go deeper.

Perhaps the fear is not simply losing the job. It is losing the security, dignity, and sense of belonging that the job provides.

You are worried about money.

Go deeper.

Perhaps the deepest fear is:

“What will happen to me if I lose the things that make me feel secure?”

This is why trauma can be so devastating. It can leave a person feeling disconnected, abandoned, unable to trust, and profoundly alone.

And now we can understand the mysterious story of the lower waters.

When G-d created the world, the Divine presence was completely revealed.

The Torah begins with water, and water has a remarkable quality: it reflects what is placed before it.

The world, in its original state, reflected the Divine presence.

But then came the division.

There were higher waters and lower waters.

And that division represents something much deeper than geography.

It represents the division within every human being.

There is a part of me that is physical, material, concerned with survival, success, money, status, and the opinions of others.

But there is another part of me—a neshamah, a Divine soul—that is connected to something infinite.

And sometimes I don't know which one is the real me.

Am I merely a physical being trying to survive in a difficult world?

Or am I a soul—a reflection of something infinitely greater?

That is the great loneliness of the human condition.

I feel separated.

Disconnected.

Alone.

And that is why the lower waters cried:

“We, too, want to be close to G-d.”

The answer was not to eliminate the division.

The answer was to give the lower waters a mission.

They could still reach the Altar.

They could still rise.

They could still become part of the Divine service.

And that is the secret of Simchas Beis HaShoeva.

The celebration was not really about water.

It was about the discovery that even the lowest waters can rise toward G-d.

Even a person who feels distant can reconnect.

Even someone who feels spiritually lost can come home.

Even someone who feels completely alone is never truly alone.

And perhaps this is exactly what the Talmud means when it says:

“One who did not see the joy of the water-drawing never saw joy in his life.”

Because true joy is not simply having everything we want.

True joy is discovering that we are connected.

Connected to G-d.

Connected to our soul.

Connected to one another.

And once a person knows that he is never truly alone, he can finally begin to live with joy.

The division between the higher and lower waters created another crisis—a crisis of identity.

Who am I?

Am I simply a physical creature, driven by cravings and instincts?

Am I a mechanical being whose happiness depends on generating enough pleasure in my brain?

Or am I something infinitely greater?

Am I a fragment of the ultimate truth—a soul, a spark of G-d, placed in this world with a purpose?

This is the great human struggle.

We pursue pleasure because we assume that pleasure will make us happy.

We buy things.

We travel.

We drink.

We entertain ourselves.

We chase experiences and achievements.

And for a moment, it feels good.

But then the feeling disappears.

The emptiness returns.

Ask anyone struggling with addiction. The next pleasure never permanently fills the void left by the previous one.

Why?

Because the void is deeper than pleasure.

The problem is not that we need more pleasure. The problem is that we have become disconnected from who we really are.

The lower waters are crying for the higher waters.

And no amount of material success can answer that cry.

All the conflicts we bring into therapy—our anxiety, insecurity, fear, frustration, loneliness—may have many different expressions, but beneath them can lie one fundamental question:

Am I merely trying to survive in this physical world, or am I connected to something infinitely greater?

The lower waters cried because they felt separated from G-d.

And don't we sometimes cry for the same reason?

I feel empty.
I feel alone.
I feel disconnected.

And G-d's answer was the promise of Nisuch HaMayim.

Every Sukkos, the water from the springs below would be brought up to the Altar.

The lower waters would rise.

They would return to their higher source.

And that is why the celebration was so powerful.

The water was telling us something about ourselves.

On Sukkos, we discover a profound truth:

The separation is not the final reality.

You are never truly alone.

You are never abandoned.

You are never disconnected from G-d.

The purpose of the apparent separation is precisely so that we can choose to reveal the unity that was there all along.

There are not really two waters.

There is one reality.

There is the physical you—and there is the spiritual you.

The person struggling with the world, and there is the neshamah within that person, constantly connected to G-d.

Our task is to bring the lower waters back to the higher waters—to align our physical lives with our spiritual identity.

As King David says in Psalm 139:

“Where shall I go from Your spirit?
Where shall I flee from Your presence?
If I ascend to the heavens, You are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, behold, You are there.”

There is nowhere we can go where G-d is absent.

There is a beautiful story about Rabbi Adin Even-Israel Steinsaltz, one of the great Jewish scholars of our generation.

Rabbi Steinsaltz once visited the Lubavitcher Rebbe in New York. During their conversation, the Rebbe asked him about his wife.

Rabbi Steinsaltz replied, “Thank G-d, she is fine. But I am here in America alone.”

The Rebbe paused.

Then he lifted his hands and said:

“What do you mean, you are alone? You are with G-d!”

Think about that response.

Rabbi Steinsaltz meant that his wife was not with him.

The Rebbe understood something much deeper.

A Jew is never alone.

You may feel alone.

You may be physically alone.

You may be going through something nobody else understands.

But you are never spiritually alone.

There is always a Divine presence accompanying you.

And that is the essence of the message of Nisuch HaMayim.

The Secret to Joy

Now we can understand the words of the Talmud:

“One who did not see the joy of the water-drawing never saw joy in his life.”

The Sages were not simply describing a spectacular celebration.

They were telling us the secret of joy.

True joy begins when we know that we are not alone.

You are never separated.

You are never abandoned.

You are never forgotten.

You are never truly on your own.

You are always embraced by the Divine.

G-d is with you.

G-d is within you.

G-d believes in you.

And the feeling of separation is not there to destroy you.

It is there to allow you to discover the unity that has never disappeared.

That is why the water rose.

The lower waters were not being destroyed.

They were being reunited.

And that is our journey as well.

We take the physical parts of our lives, the work, the family, the money, the struggles, the fears, and we bring them upward.

We connect the ordinary to the Divine.

We connect the body to the soul.

We connect our daily lives to our purpose.

And when we do that, something extraordinary happens.

The emptiness begins to fill.
The loneliness begins to disappear.
The anxiety begins to loosen its grip.
And joy begins to emerge.

Because the greatest secret of happiness is not getting everything we want.

It is discovering that we were never alone to begin with.

And perhaps that is why the celebration of the water was called Simchas Beis HaShoeva.

We were celebrating the moment when the lower waters discovered their way home.

And every Sukkos, we are invited to make that same journey.

To bring ourselves home.

To bring our physical lives back to our spiritual purpose.

To remember who we really are.

We are never alone.

And when we truly know that,

we can finally experience joy.

Rabbi Fischel Schachter tells a remarkable story about a Holocaust survivor who settled in America after the war.

She had been married for twelve years without having children. One day, sitting in a doctor’s office on Madison Avenue in Manhattan, the doctor reviewed her charts and told her:

“Madame, please listen to me. I am telling you this for your own benefit: give up. Medically speaking, there is nothing we can do to help you have children. When hair grows from the palm of my hand, that is when you will have a child.”

She left the office and boarded a Madison Avenue bus.

As she sat there, she began thinking about her life. She remembered the horrors she had experienced as a young girl in Poland. Her family had built a trapdoor beneath their dining room table. Whenever the Nazis approached, they would open the trapdoor, climb underneath, close it, cover it with a carpet, and hide.

Many times, she volunteered to be the one to close the trapdoor. She would curl herself up on top of a piece of furniture and listen in terror as the Nazis searched the house, smashing furniture as they went from room to room.

Again and again, her family was saved.

Until one day, the Nazis discovered a soft spot in the floor. They found the trapdoor and dragged her entire family away.

She was the only one who survived.

After the war, she came to America and desperately wanted to build a family. Now, after twelve long years, the doctor had told her that even this dream would never happen.

She sat on the bus and thought, “I have no reason to get off.”

And she stayed there.

Hour after hour, she remained on the bus until finally the driver told her that he was taking the bus to the garage for the night and that she had to get off.

She quietly said, “I have nothing to live for.”

The driver replied, “Listen, lady, I've had a hard day. I don't know what your problem is, but you're not going to solve it by staying on this bus.”

She stepped off.

And then something changed.

She said:

“Master of the World, You were with me all along. You saved my life countless times. You brought me here. You gave me the opportunity to begin my life again. My life is in Your hands. I have no right to give up. You didn't save my life for me to spend it sitting on the Madison Avenue bus. Please show me what to do. I will not give up. I will continue serving You no matter what.”

One year later, she had a child.

That child grew up, married, and had children of his own. By the time this woman passed away, she had so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren that the doctor's famous palm would have needed hair many times over.

And then Rabbi Fischel Schachter adds something extraordinary.

He heard this story firsthand from the woman herself.

She was his mother.

Rabbi Schachter today has fourteen children and, G-d bless him, many grandchildren.

The lesson is not that every prayer is answered exactly as we hope. The lesson is something deeper:

She discovered that she was never alone.

She had lost her family. She had lost her past. She had just been told that she would never have the future she dreamed of.

But sitting on that bus, she remembered one truth:

G-d had been with her all along.

And that is the secret of the water drawing on Sukkos.

The lower waters cried, “We, too, want to be close to G-d.”

The answer was not that the separation would never exist. The answer was that the separation is not the end of the story.

There is always a way back.

There is always a connection.

And there is always a G-d who is with us—even when we cannot see Him.

You are never alone.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Let Your Light Shine

Thu, 10 Sep 2026 9:44:00 AM

We are facing an enemy as savage, voracious, and heartless as the Nazis. Yet sometimes, you would never know it from the way we speak about this war.
During World War II, we did not call the Nazi stormtroopers “freedom fighters.” We did not call the Gestapo “militants.” We did not explain the Nazis’ rise to power by blaming the Jews. And we certainly did not apologize for fighting back.
There was moral clarity.
We knew who the enemy was. We knew what evil looked like. And we knew that only victory over that evil could bring peace.
Yet in 2014, when Israel fought to stop rockets raining down on its cities and destroy tunnels built to murder Israeli civilians, something extraordinary happened. A wave of anti-Semitism swept across the world.
Synagogues were attacked. Jews were beaten. Demonstrators shouted, “Kill the Jews,” “Gas the Jews,” and “Hitler was right.”
And somehow, Israel became the villain.
Think about the hypocrisy. Hundreds of thousands were being slaughtered in Syria. Millions were dying in wars across the Middle East and Africa. Christians were being persecuted. Women were being raped and murdered. Terrorists were destroying entire communities.
Where were the massive demonstrations?
But when Israel defended itself against Hamas, the world suddenly discovered its outrage.
Why?
Because beneath the political arguments, something much older was revealing itself.

Why Do We Deserve This?

For decades, we believed that the Holocaust had taught humanity a lesson. We believed that the world had learned the dangers of racism, hatred, and bigotry.
We Jews, tried to become part of the family of nations. We built successful lives, contributed to society, and became doctors, lawyers, scientists, teachers, business leaders, and citizens of the countries in which we lived.
We thought we had finally become just another people.
And then, suddenly, the hatred returned.
But this is not a question Jews began asking in 2014.
We have been asking it for thousands of years.
Pharaoh hated us. Nebuchadnezzar hated us. Rome persecuted us. Crusaders massacred us. Expulsions followed expulsions. Stalin persecuted us. Hitler attempted to annihilate us.
The names change. The countries change. The ideology changes.
But the hatred keeps returning.
As Dennis Prager and Joseph Telushkin put it so powerfully: economic depression does not explain gas chambers.
There may be political, economic, or social factors that intensify anti-Semitism. But they do not explain its existence.

And Then Came the Joke

An Israeli in Paris once saw a pit bull attacking a little girl. He killed the dog and saved the child.
The reporters ran over.
“What's your name? You're a hero! Tomorrow's headline: Hero Saves Girl from Vicious Dog!”
The man said, “But I'm not from Paris.”
“That's okay,” they replied. “The whole of France will love you!”
“I’m not from France.”
“Then all of Europe will celebrate you!”
“I’m not from Europe.”
“Where are you from?”
“Israel.”
The reporters looked at each other.
“Israel? Tomorrow's headline: Cruel Israeli Murders Dog!”
We laugh because the joke exposes something painful.

Never Again Must Mean Never Again

The question before us today is not only what the world will do.
It is what will we do?
Will we lose our moral clarity?
Will we be embarrassed to defend ourselves?
Will we allow others to define the Jewish people as the problem when Jews are once again being targeted?
No.
We must know who we are.
We must stand proudly as Jews.
We must support Israel.
We must defend Jewish life.
And above all, we must never apologize for fighting evil.
The lesson of Jewish history is not that hatred will disappear.
The lesson is that we must never forget who we are, never surrender our identity, and never lose our courage.
Because Never Again is not merely a phrase about what happened to our grandparents.
It is a commitment to what we will do for our children.
Yet the most fascinating question is not simply why anti-Semitism exists.
It is how the Jewish people understood it—and how we responded to it—for thousands of years.
Every morning, 365 days a year, we say:
“How fortunate we are! How good is our portion; how sweet is our lot; how beautiful is our inheritance!”
In simple Yiddish:
Oy vey, how great to be a Yid!
How wonderful it is to be a Jew!
Are we delusional?
How can we call our lot “sweet” when our people have been hated, persecuted, expelled, tortured, and murdered throughout history?
The answer is profound.
You can look at anti-Semitism and kvetch.
Or you can fight it with everything you have—and at the same time understand that Jewish existence itself represents something extraordinary.
For thousands of years, the Jew has been an irritant to those who cannot accept what the Jew represents.
Why?
Because approximately 3,400 years ago, at Sinai, the Jewish people received something that changed history forever:
Torah.
Torah gave us a mission: to bring holiness into the world, to teach that every human being is created in the image of G-d, to stand for morality, justice, compassion, freedom, and responsibility.
At Sinai, we were given a torch to illuminate the world with love, goodness, kindness, and holiness.
We were given a blueprint for healing humanity and bringing the world toward redemption.
Through Torah study, we connect with G-d.
Through a mitzvah, we embrace G-d.
And when a Jewish child understands this inheritance, he naturally says:
How fortunate we are! How good is our portion! How sweet is our lot! How beautiful is our inheritance!
Leo Tolstoy captured this mystery beautifully. He asked:
“What is a Jew?”
A people persecuted by empires and tyrants, yet still alive.
A people who refused to surrender their faith.
A people who taught the world liberty, education, morality, and the dignity of every human being.
The Jew is the emblem of eternity.
That is the secret.
The Jewish presence forces humanity to confront a question: Is life merely physical, or is there something higher?
Some respond by being inspired by the Jewish message.
Others respond by attacking the messenger.
Maurice Samuel put it brilliantly:
“No man loves his alarm clock.”
The Jew is civilization’s alarm clock.
We are here to remind the world that there is a G-d, that life has purpose, that morality matters, that every human being possesses a Divine soul.
And that is why the Jewish story is so remarkable.
We sometimes ask: Are we really the same Jews who stood at Sinai?
Are we the descendants of Abraham, Moses, David, Isaiah, Rabbi Akiva, Rashi, Maimonides, and the Baal Shem Tov?
Is the Jewish student walking across Oxford or Harvard the same Jew who stood at Sinai?
Is the Jew living in Bayside, working hard to support his family, really part of the same people chosen to carry the Torah into history?
Look at our history.
Look at the hatred.
After thousands of years, the world still reacts to the Jew with extraordinary intensity.
And perhaps that tells us something profound:
The Jewish soul has not changed.
The Jew has not lost his spiritual power.
The covenant has not disappeared.
The light of Sinai is still burning.
Every one of us is a living miracle of Jewish history.
You may be religious or secular, affiliated or unaffiliated. You may feel deeply connected to Judaism—or barely connected at all.
But inside you is the same Jewish soul that stood at Sinai.
You are carrying a piece of eternity.
And that is why, every morning, we can say with complete confidence:
How fortunate we are!
How good is our portion!
How sweet is our lot!
How beautiful is our inheritance!
Oy vey, how great to be a Yid!

We will be strong.
And at this moment, we must express our deepest appreciation to the brave men and women of the IDF, who are literally standing on the front lines for the Jewish people.
We will not duck.
We will not buckle.
We will not cower.
We will protect ourselves with determination. We will speak up and speak out. We will stand with Israel and with the Jewish people with every fiber of our being.
As the prophet Isaiah declared:
“For the sake of Zion I will not be silent, and for the sake of Jerusalem I will not rest.”
But there is another battle we must fight—not only against those who hate us, but against the temptation to internalize their hatred.
European Jews in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries made a tragic mistake. They thought:
“People hate us because we are different. So we will stop being different.”
They assimilated. They hid their Judaism. They abandoned one tradition after another.
And what happened?
Anti-Semitism did not disappear.
All Jewish self-blame accomplished was to weaken and demoralize the Jewish people.
The most important thing we can do is therefore simple:

Never internalize anti-Semitism.

Instead, be proud Jews.
Because we may not always know who we are—but the world does.
There is something unique about the Jewish people. We carry a Jewish soul. We carry the legacy of Sinai. We carry a mission.
And when we proudly embrace that identity, something extraordinary happens.

The Jewish Response to Bigotry

In 2007, an anti-Semitic preacher came to the University of Kansas carrying hateful signs and screaming that Jews belonged in hell.
Jewish students came out to protest.
But one student was different.
His name was Charles Goldberg. He was completely secular, barely connected to Judaism, and had little involvement in Jewish life.
But something inside him awakened.
He remembered that a Chabad rabbi had once left a tallit at his fraternity house. Charles ran back, found the tallit, wrapped himself in it, climbed onto a bench, and began to pray.
The Jewish students began cheering.
The media came.
The next day, the university newspaper featured a photograph of Charles wrapped in a tallit.
The headline said:
“The Jewish Response to Bigotry.”
What a message.
He did not respond by hiding his Jewishness.
He responded by becoming more Jewish.
And that is our response.
If every Jew took just one baby step closer to Judaism, imagine the power.
Put up a mezuzah.
Put on tefillin.
Light Shabbat candles.
Study Torah.
Give your children a Jewish education.
Give tzedakah.
Make your home a Jewish home.
Celebrate Shabbat.
Strengthen your connection to mitzvot.
You don't have to change everything overnight.
Just take one step.
Because every Jewish soul is a flame.
And when millions of individual flames come together, they become a torch.
The world may try to extinguish our light.
Our answer is to make it brighter.
The Jewish soul was given a Divine mission: to illuminate the darkness with Torah and mitzvot.
The ball is in our court.
Let us become who we truly are. Let us light our flame. And together, let us illuminate the world.

Shana Tova, a happy and sweet New Year,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

When We Come Together, Miracles Happen

Thu, 3 Sep 2026 3:05:00 PM

A Jewish man passing through Texas for a few days on business checked into a rooming house in a very frontier town.

He dressed himself in western attire and went into the only saloon in town. He was surrounded by men in cowboy clothes,

wearing six-shooters and looking very gruff. He ordered a beer. While sipping his beer and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, the biggest,

burliest, scroungiest-looking specimen walks in and proclaims, "Ah, I hear there is a Jew in here!" The Jewish man cringes, says nothing.

"Ah know you're in here and you better speak up," says the western man.

The Jewish man knows that sooner or later he would have to face up to him and accept the consequences of being Jewish, especially in such a remote place as this.

He stands up proudly and says, I AM A JEW!" The westerner stares at him angrily, "What are you hiding for? Come with me, ah needs you for a minyan!"

The opening verses of Nitzavim-Vayelech reveal one of Judaism’s most powerful ideas:

“You are all standing this day before the Lord your G-d…”

Leaders and elders, men and women, children and converts—everyone is standing together. Because to enter the covenant with G-d, we need the entire community.

Judaism places extraordinary emphasis on community. We pray together, learn together, build shuls and yeshivas, and are commanded to share in one another’s struggles.

Maimonides teaches that one who separates himself from the community forfeits his share in the World to Come.

Why?

Because Judaism does not believe that spiritual greatness is achieved alone.

Other traditions often celebrate the individual who withdraws from society to pursue personal spiritual perfection. Judaism teaches the opposite: holiness is found in relationship, responsibility, and belonging.

You cannot become the best Jew by yourself.

To stand before G-d, we must stand together.

A community is not simply a group of people. It is individuals bringing their unique strengths together to accomplish something no one person could accomplish alone.

One person may have greater wisdom, another experience, another talent—but together, their individual strengths become something greater than the sum of their parts.

The Baal Shem Tov offers a beautiful illustration.

The Baal Shem Tov would pray for hours. His disciples would gather around him, listening to his prayers and watching his soul soar in connection with G-d. They would not leave until he finished.

One day, exhausted and hungry, the disciples slipped away to eat and rest. When they returned, they were shocked to discover that the Baal Shem Tov had already finished praying.

“Rebbe,” they asked, “why did you finish so early today?”

The Baal Shem Tov answered with a parable:

A group of travelers once walked through a forest when their leader spotted a magnificent bird high in a tree.

“I want to reach it,” he said.

“But how?” they asked. “The tree is too high.”

“Stand on one another’s shoulders,” he replied. “Together, we can reach it.”

And so they formed a human ladder, each person supporting the next, until their leader was high enough to reach the bird.

But then they became tired and hungry. One by one, they left to eat and rest.

The moment the chain was broken, the man at the top came crashing down.

The Baal Shem Tov was teaching them:

I could soar only because you were holding me up. When one person steps away, everyone loses.

That is the power of a Jewish community: we lift one another higher.

Hey, tell a story about a man named Jack who had been part of a vibrant Jewish community for years. Every Shabbat, he came to shul until one winter, he stopped.

The rabbi went to visit him. Jack was sitting comfortably beside a warm fireplace, reading a book. The rabbi sat quietly beside him.

Then, without a word, the rabbi took the tongs, removed one glowing coal from the fire, and left.

As the fire blazed, the coal slowly faded, cooled, and died.

The rabbi said nothing. He stood up and left.

The following Shabbat, Jack was back in shul.

A coal cannot stay alive. Neither can a Jew.

We need one another. Community is not just where we belong; it is what keeps our Jewish flame alive.

But what if we took Einstein, Descartes, Hegel, Hume, Van Gogh, and Michelangelo and combined all their genius into one extraordinary individual?

Could we really say that this one person is inferior to a group of ordinary, uneducated people simply because they are a community?

What about Moses, the Arizal, or the Baal Shem Tov? Surely they could reach greater spiritual heights alone than surrounded by people far below their intellectual or spiritual level.

Yet Judaism says: even they need a community.

The clearest example is the minyan. We need ten Jews to say Kaddish, read the Torah, and sanctify G-d’s name.

Imagine nine of history’s greatest tzaddikim: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, Jeremiah, Rabbi Akiva, Rashi, and Rambam.

They still cannot begin until a tenth Jew walks in.

And if those ten are ordinary, unlearned Jews? Suddenly, we can say: “Yitgadal v’yitkadash shmei rabba!”

Why?

If holiness were simply about individual greatness, this makes no sense.

So what is it about ten Jews standing together that one extraordinary Jew cannot achieve alone?

In Judaism, unlike many philosophical systems, the deepest ideas are not presented as abstract theories.

The macrocosm is revealed through the microcosm, through Torah stories, mitzvot, and the debates of the Talmud.

The question of the power of community is a perfect example.

Instead of giving us a philosophical essay on why a community is greater than an individual,

the Torah and Talmud teach us through a seemingly technical question of Jewish law.

And in that debate, we discover one of Judaism’s most profound truths about the power of community.

Kaddiah at the Airport

A rabbi from Cleveland was traveling with eight students to a wedding. Their flight was diverted because of a storm, leaving the group stranded at a distant airport.

They realized they would miss the wedding, and, with only nine men, they could not even pray with a minyan.

The airport supervisor directed them to a quiet room. After they finished davening, he asked:

“Why didn’t you say Kaddish?”

They explained that they were missing one Jew.

The man looked at them and said in Yiddish:

“Am I not a Jew too?”

He explained that he was not religious and never prayed. But that morning was his father’s yahrtzeit.

The night before, his father had appeared to him in a dream:

“Tomorrow is my yahrtzeit. I want you to say Kaddish.”

“I told him, ‘But I don’t pray. And where will I find a minyan?’”

His father answered:

“I will make sure you have a minyan. You just say Kaddish.”

Now, seeing nine Jews arrive unexpectedly at his airport, he understood.

“My father kept his promise.”

The supervisor joined them and recited Kaddish for his father.

Think about it: Nine Jews thought they were stranded because they had missed their destination.

But perhaps they had reached their destination.

They were sent there to become the tenth Jew for a man who had been waiting for them.

That is the power of a minyan. Ten Jews do not simply pray together. They complete one another.

The lesson is simple: when a Jewish community comes together, miracles happen. And keeping a community together sometimes requires miracles of its own!

Our community is not simply a group of people under one roof, sharing a lechaim and talking about politics.

When we come together, a new energy is created, a new light, a force that no individual could create alone.

That is the power of community.

Together, we have created miracles. Together, we will continue to create miracles.

Therefore, the greatest relationships are not those between perfect people, but between people who accept each other’s imperfections and recognize each other’s strengths.

And something even greater happens when we come together: we discover a new dimension of life, one that no individual could experience alone.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Gratitude Is Never Just About Me

Fri, 28 Aug 2026 10:41:00 AM

A little girl asked her mother for two dollars to give to an old lady in the park. Her mother was touched by the child's kindness and gave her the required sum.

"There you are, my dear," said the mother. "I guess she is too old to work?" "Oh no," came the reply. "She sells ice cream."

The Torah commands in this week's Torah portion the Mitzvah of Bikkurim, the First Fruits, only after the entire Land of Israel had been conquered and divided among all the tribes.

Why? If I have my land, my fruit, and my blessings, why should my gratitude wait until everyone else has their portion?

The Rebbe offers a powerful answer.

Because Judaism teaches that true gratitude is never just about what I have.

I cannot fully celebrate my blessing while my brother is still waiting for his.

My blessing becomes complete when I remember that I am part of something bigger than myself.

The Jewish people are one people, one family, one soul. As long as even one Jew had not yet received and settled his portion of the Land, no Jew could fully celebrate his own.

Yes, the farmer had his land. His crops were growing. He had every reason to rejoice and thank G-d. But how could he celebrate completely when his brothers were still waiting for their homes and fields?

They may have lived miles away and belonged to another tribe, but their fulfillment was his fulfillment.

This is the profound message of Bikkurim: we are never complete alone.

Their victories are our victories. Their pain is our pain. Their struggles are our struggles.

For me to truly win, my brother must win too.

During the 2012 Olympics, Jewish gymnast Aly Raisman became a star, winning gold with her unforgettable floor routine to Hava Nagillah. But one of the most memorable parts of her story was not Aly; it was her parents in the stands.

They were gripping their seats, sweating, wincing, leaning with every movement, encouragement she could not even hear. When she finished, her father wiped his face and let out a tremendous sigh of relief.

Why? Because her fate was their fate. Her victory was their victory.

That is natural with our children. We feel their pain and celebrate their triumphs as though they were our own.

But Bikkurim teaches us to take that feeling beyond our immediate family.

The Jewish people are one family. Your pain is my pain. Your success is my success. Your struggle is my struggle.

As long as one Jew is still waiting for his blessing, I cannot celebrate mine completely.

Because in Judaism, we don't truly win unless we win together.

The father turned to the Lubavitcher Rebbe. The Rebbe’s answer was unequivocal: “Don’t sign anything. Do everything possible to save both the mother and the baby.”

The parents followed his advice. A C-section was scheduled, and the anxious father was sent home to be with his other children.

At 4:00 AM, the doctor called: “Mazel Tov! Mother and baby are healthy!”

The father immediately informed the Rebbe’s office.

At 7:00 AM, the Rebbe called to wish him Mazel Tov, and then asked:

“Was the baby born at 4:00, or at 3:30?”

The father was stunned. The hospital records said 4:00. But when they checked with the nurse, they discovered the truth: the baby had been born at 3:30.

The nurse had recorded the time only after caring for the baby.

The father asked the Rebbe how he could have known.

The Rebbe replied:

“I could not go to sleep until I knew that the mother and baby were safe. At 3:30, I was able to go to sleep.”

Think about that.

A mother and baby, hundreds of miles away, were in distress—and the Rebbe could not sleep because their pain was his pain.

This is the meaning of Jewish unity.

The way a parent feels the pain and joy of a child, the Rebbe felt the pain and joy of every Jew.

And that is what Bikkurim teaches us:

We are not separate Jews. We are one family. Their victory is our victory. Their pain is our pain. And their blessing is our blessing.

The story is told of a man who bought a ticket to ride on a large ferry.

As he arrived to board the ship, he was disappointed to find his seat was far from any windows, and try as he might, he could barely catch a glimpse of the water.

“I only got a ticket; I could see the water,” he told himself angrily.

Frustrated, he began banging away at the floor of the boat to drill a hole so he could see some of that lovely blue water.

The alarmed sailors quickly stopped and seized the man, and hauled him before the captain, reporting exactly what the passenger had done.

“What in the blazes do you think you were doing?” demanded the furious captain.

“I was just trying to make a hole under my seat,” said the man, “after all, I paid for that seat with my own money - I should be able to do whatever I want with it!”

“You fool,” said the captain. “If you make a hole in the ship, we will all sink.”

No, we can never be blind to the challenges and to the travesties that occur around us, anywhere in the world. Remember, if you lose, I lose. For me to win, I need you to win.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Power to Begin Again

Fri, 21 Aug 2026 10:18:00 PM

In a military class, the professor asked the students, “What is the difference between an engagement and a battle?”

No one in the group answered. The professor was frustrated. “Didn’t anyone read the material in the book?” he thundered.

Finally, one guy said that he knew the answer.

“An engagement is the thing that came before marriage,” he said, “while the battle is what followed it.”

There once was a kid named Ben who was rebellious from the day he was born.

At his Brit Milah, he had a spiked haircut, and when the mohel came toward him with that scary-looking knife, Ben refused to cry!

By five, he was spelling dirty words with his Alpha-Bet cereal. By ten, he was carving tattoos into his sister’s Barbie. And as a teenager, he stayed out all night, ignored his parents, skipped his chores, and got into constant trouble at school.

He even broke into the teachers’ lounge and stole $200.

Finally, his parents were at their wits’ end. One night, they called the police and said, “Take him away. Lock him up for life. We don’t want him becoming a danger to society.”

As Ben was led away, his parents didn't even say goodbye.

Now, let me ask you:

Could this really happen?

Of course not.

No matter how rebellious a child becomes, no parent would ever say, “He is no longer my child.”

And that is exactly the question the Torah is forcing us to confront:

Can a Jewish child ever become so rebellious that we give up on him?

The Torah's answer is profound, and it begins with the strange law of the rebellious son.

The Torah presents, in this week’s Torah portion Ki Teitzei, the shocking case of a rebellious thirteen-year-old whose parents bring him before the court, where he is sentenced to death.

Can you imagine a Jewish mother saying, “Ben, I packed you some cookies. And don't forget your sweater, it gets cold in the death chamber!”

Even Moses struggled with this law. The Zohar says he asked G-d: “Will there ever be a father who does this to his son?”

The Talmud answers that “there never was and never will be” such a case. The conditions are so impossible that the law could never practically be carried out.

So why did the Torah write it?

Study it and receive its reward.

But there is an even deeper question. The Torah says the child is punished because of where his behavior will eventually lead.

How can Judaism say that about a thirteen-year-old?

What happened to Teshuvah?

The answer is the very opposite of giving up on a child.

The Torah is teaching us: Never ignore destructive patterns.

A child may change, but we cannot wait until the damage is done.

And perhaps the greatest lesson is this:

A child’s behavior is not his destiny.

Don't say, “This is who he is.”

Say:

“This is where he is, and with love, boundaries, and guidance, he can become something entirely different.”

That is the power of Teshuvah.

Every child, even the most troubled child, is still holy. He carries the spiritual DNA of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. His Jewish soul remains eternally connected to Hashem.

The question is: Can he still feel that connection?

The Torah teaches that a child who experiences his parents’ love and forgiveness remains connected to his roots, and those roots give him the strength to change.

When we refuse to forgive, a child may conclude that he is beyond repair. But when we forgive him, we give him the courage to forgive himself and begin again.

Never give up on your child. Never sever the connection.

Behind the mistakes, the anger, and even the deepest failures is a Jewish soul, a spark of the Divine, carrying a four-thousand-year-old legacy.

Sometimes the most powerful thing a parent can say is:

“I still believe in you. I still love you. You are still my child. You are still part of us.”

Several years ago, I taught a class about the idea that every person is sent into this world with a unique mission—and with the abilities necessary to fulfill it. Sometimes those abilities are hidden beneath weakness and struggle.

Our sacred responsibility is to help uncover them.

A child may see only his failures. We must learn to see his potential.

Our job is not only to correct what is wrong, but to awaken what is right—to help a child discover the greatness within his soul and give him the courage to become who he was created to be.

Sometimes, believing in someone is what finally teaches them to believe in themselves.

After my class, a striking young man approached me. As he got closer, I saw that he suffered from some motor complications. He asked to speak with me privately. After everyone left, we sat down, and he began to tell me his story. His words came out slowly due to a speech impediment, and he shared with me that he was born with a rare disease that affected his nervous system, which also impaired his mental capacity and growth. He later discovered that his parents gave him away as a newborn, after hearing that he was diagnosed with severe mental handicaps. Over the years, it turned out that the diagnosis was not completely accurate, though he still suffered from many problems. At that point, his parents were not willing or able to handle him, and they chose to have no contact with him.

His parents were wealthy and prominent. They gave him excellent care, but they never visited.

He was, in effect, an orphan. A “privileged orphan.” Everything was provided except the one thing he needed most: unconditional love.

And yet, despite his pain, he had developed an extraordinary capacity for warmth, kindness, and love.

After one of my classes, he approached me.

“Rabbi, I know I have limitations. But I also know I have strengths. Can you help me discover them?”

I was deeply moved.

He could not see what I saw: a soul of extraordinary beauty, refined through suffering.

He continued coming to my classes, and we became close. He spoke about his rejection and his longing to confront his parents. He had found them.

But he was terrified to face them.

Because sometimes the deepest wound is not what someone did to you.

It is the love you never received.

I began to wonder: Should I call his parents myself?

Who was I to confront them? I tried not to judge. Perhaps they had their own pain, their own reasons, their own story.

But one question would not leave me:

Can any reason ever justify a parent abandoning a child?

And another question haunted me:

Was it my place to confront them, or was it my place to help their son find his way back to himself?

After a few months of hesitation, I got the number, and I finally made the call.

“Hello, good afternoon. I am a friend of your son and would like to speak to you about him.” Deathly silence on the other end of the line. What do I say now?

“Hello, hi, may we speak for a few moments?”

“What can I do for you?” was the cold response.

“I know your son. He is an extraordinary man, and I thought that would make you proud.”

Click. The father hung up the phone.

What do I do now? Call back? I decided to wait. A few days later I tried again. This time his secretary did not let the call through, so I left a message saying that “this matter is very personal and can have profound long-term consequences for good or for bad.”

I tried the next day, and what do you know, he took my call. Now what? I said: “Please understand. I am not in the business of meddling. I am not being critical or judgmental. I feel from the depths of my heart that it would be life-transforming for you and your wife to meet your son.”

“We don’t want to talk about it; we don’t want to go there; we did what we felt was best for everyone.”

“I am sure you did. Still, today, your son has grown to be a tremendous soul. He needs to see you, and you need to see him. Please consider that.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

He didn’t. But now I was on the warpath. So I called again. He did apologize for not getting back, almost making me respect his cordiality, until I remembered why we were here in the first place, and said that his wife would not be able to do it. Too uncomfortable. He mumbled something about having “long ago buried this.” But I persisted.

“So then I’ll arrange for you to meet your son without your wife.”

“No, not yet.”

After a few months, he finally relented, and together with his wife we scheduled the fateful meeting they dreaded. At their insistence, which surprised me, they wanted me to be present at the meeting, I figured, to serve as a bit of a buffer.

The big day came. We met in their lavish living room, tea and biscuits on the table, all choreographed, except for the emotions being released.

Oh man, this was one of the most heart-wrenching experiences I would ever endure, and I wondered what havoc I would wreak, but it was too late. Here we were. Initially, everybody was cordial, even detached, like strangers meeting about buying a house. “What do you do?” “Where have you traveled?” “Are you a Yankee fan?” “How’s the weather?” You get the idea? After sitting silent, trying to be invisible and letting things take their natural, biological course (or so I hoped), I finally piped in the first serious statement of the evening. “Your son told me his story. He must have a lot of anger inside of him, but he hasn’t shown it to me, or maybe not even to himself. You must have many feelings yourselves. I really don’t belong here, but since I am here, allow me to say that your son is one of the most beautiful people I know. I have discovered new horizons of human dignity and the capacity to shine in this harsh world. I think it would be truly life-changing for you to get to know each other.”

Before I stood up to leave, our hero turned to his parents and uttered a few words that could melt any heart. With a stutter and a bit slowly, his speech was impeded; as you may recall, he began:

“Mumma, Puppa... I, I am not perfect. You, too, you are also not perfect. I have forgiven you. Can you forgive me?”

We all burst into tears. I made my way out the door, leaving them alone...

“Mumma, Puppa... I, I am not perfect. You aren't perfect, either. I have forgiven you. Can you forgive me?” Can you forgive me for not being perfect, their handicapped child asked. Can you forgive me for putting into your life a child who is less than perfect?...

Can you forgive your child for not being perfect? Can you forgive your loved one for not being perfect? Can you forgive yourself for being imperfect?

Shabbat Shalom and Shana Tova

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Are You the Master of Your Mind?

Fri, 14 Aug 2026 10:19:00 PM

A follower of Rabbi Meir of Premishlan once complained to him about a man who had started a competing business. “He is depriving me of my livelihood!” cried the chassid. “You must tell him to close his shop!”

Said Rabbi Meir: “Have you ever noticed how a horse behaves when he is led to a water hole? He begins to paw angrily at the water with his hooves; only when the water is well-muddied does he begin to drink. Why does the horse act this way?”

“I don’t know,” said the chassid. “Why?”

“Because the horse sees his reflection in the water and thinks that another horse has come to drink his water. So he kicks and paws until he has ‘chased away’ the other horse.”

“What the horse doesn’t understand,” concluded Rabbi Meir, “are three truths. What he sees as his opposition is only a mirror of himself. By kicking at the other horse, all he is accomplishing is making his own water dirty and murky. And he also fails to realize that G-d has created enough water for all the horses.”

This week’s Torah portion, Shoftim, teaches one of the Torah’s most powerful principles of business ethics: “You shall not move the boundary of your neighbor.” Literally, the Torah is warning us not to move the markers that separate one person’s property from another’s. But the Torah is teaching us something much deeper: respect other people’s boundaries.

The Torah believes in competition. We are encouraged to build, create, innovate, and succeed. But there is a line: I am allowed to compete with you; I am not allowed to destroy you. Competition is part of life, but deliberately putting another person out of business is a different matter.

And perhaps there is an even bigger lesson. Sometimes we think, “If I can do it, I have the right to do it.” But Judaism asks a higher question: “What will my success do to someone else?” Not every opportunity has to be taken. Not every competitor has to be crushed.

But there is another kind of crossing the line, one that has nothing to do with property or money. It is about moral and spiritual boundaries. For more than 3,000 years, the Jewish people have maintained certain markers—boundaries that define who we are. Because boundaries rarely disappear all at once. You move the marker an inch, then another inch, and eventually you don’t even remember where the original line was.

A Chassid once asked Rabbi DovBer, the Maggid, how he could be held responsible for thoughts that entered his mind by themselves. The Maggid sent him to Rabbi Zev. When the Chassid arrived late at night, Rabbi Zev left him outside in the cold for hours before finally opening the door and welcoming him warmly.

Several days later, Rabbi Zev explained: “I already answered you the night you arrived. You saw that I was home. You knocked on my door. But I didn’t let you in. A person is the master of his own home. He decides whom he allows inside and whom he keeps outside. The same is true of your mind. You cannot always control which thoughts knock on the door. But you control which thoughts you invite inside.”

We cannot always control what enters our minds. But we don’t have to give every thought a chair, a meal, and a permanent address. You are the master of your mind. Protect the boundaries that protect you.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

What is the Jewish secret of hope?

Fri, 7 Aug 2026 10:21:00 PM

Judaism teaches that history is not random. It has a beginning, "In the beginning G-d created the heavens and the earth," and it has a destination: "On that day, G-d will be One and His Name One."

The world is moving from chaos to order, from fragmentation to unity. There is a Divine Author guiding history toward redemption.

This does not erase pain or tragedy. But it means we never give up. We refuse both despair and false hope. We are not searching for temporary fixes or fashionable ideologies that eventually collapse. We are searching for truth, nothing but the truth.

That truth is Torah.

The Torah is not merely an ancient book; it is G-d's blueprint for healing the human soul and, ultimately, the world. Real peace will come when humanity recognizes the Divine image within every person and lives by G-d's moral vision.

That is our mission as Jews.

This is the essence of our belief in Moshiach. Moshiach is not simply a dream about a better tomorrow. Every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every moment of Torah study, every stand for truth, every refusal to surrender to falsehood brings that future closer.

The greatest revolution is not political—it is spiritual.

There is something profoundly liberating about living the truth without apology. No fake news. No fake morality. No empty promises. Only Torah. Only truth. Only holiness.

When enough people choose truth over falsehood, holiness over cynicism, and G-d over ego, the world itself will change.

The Chassidic master Rabbi Dov Ber once spent the night at a roadside inn. The next morning, he eagerly asked the innkeeper:

"Where did you get the clock that hangs in my room?"

The innkeeper was puzzled.

"It's just an ordinary clock. There are hundreds like it."

"No," replied the Rabbi. "This is no ordinary clock. Please find out where it came from."

After making inquiries, the innkeeper discovered that the clock had once belonged to the great Seer of Lublin, Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Horowitz. Through a series of circumstances, it eventually found its way to the inn.

"Of course!" exclaimed Rabbi Dov Ber. "Only the Seer of Lublin could own such a clock."

He explained:

"An ordinary clock says, 'Another hour of your life has passed. You are one hour closer to the grave.' But this clock says, 'Another hour of exile has passed. You are one hour closer to Moshiach and the Redemption.'"

"All through the night," Rabbi Dov Ber concluded, "every time the clock struck the hour, I jumped out of bed and danced for joy."

What an extraordinary perspective. Most people hear time slipping away. A Jew hears redemption drawing nearer.

Every hour is not one hour less to live; it is one hour closer to the fulfillment of G-d's promise and the coming of Moshiach.

This week's Torah portion, Re'eh, teaches us that bringing that day closer is not only our hope, it is also our responsibility.
"If there will be among you a needy person, one of your brothers, in one of your cities, in the land that Hashem your G-d gives you, do not harden your heart or close your hand against your needy brother." (Devarim 15:7)

On its simplest level, Moses is commanding us to open our hearts and our hands to those in need.

But, as always, the Torah speaks on many levels.

The great Ohr HaChaim, who lived in Jerusalem in the eighteenth century, reveals a remarkable, deeper meaning hidden within these words.

He explains that this verse is not speaking only about financial charity. It is also alluding to the ultimate purpose of Jewish history and to our responsibility to bring the Redemption closer.

Every Jew can hasten the coming of Moshiach. By opening our hearts to one another and caring for our "destitute brother," we become partners with G-d in ending the spiritual exile and ushering in the final Redemption.

In other words, charity is not merely an act of kindness; it is an act that transforms history.

The Ohr HaChaim offers a remarkable interpretation.

The "destitute person" in this verse is not only the poor individual before us. It also refers to Moshiach, whom the prophet describes as "a poor man riding on a donkey."

Why is Moshiach called poor?

Because the Hebrew word evyon means not only poor, but one who constantly yearns. Moshiach's deepest longing is to end exile, suffering, hatred, and war, and reveal G-d's presence throughout the world.

The Torah is telling us:

"If there is a poor man among you... do not harden your heart."

Never become numb. Never accept evil as normal. Never stop yearning for redemption.

Open your heart to the cry of Moshiach.

The Ohr HaChaim explains that every phrase points to him: "your brother", the chosen redeemer; "within your gates", the ultimate judge of justice; "in your land", his longing for the complete redemption of Eretz Yisrael.

Then comes the command:

"Do not harden your heart or close your hand."

Every mitzvah, especially charity, is far more than an act of kindness. It is a declaration that evil will not have the final word. Every mitzvah is a protest against darkness and a vote for redemption.

This week we lost Samuel Gutman, Colombia's last Holocaust survivor, at the age of one hundred.

He survived the Warsaw Ghetto, lost nearly his entire family to the Nazis, fought with the Allied forces, and then rebuilt his life from the ashes.

His generation rebuilt the Jewish people.

Our generation must complete their work.

Every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every moment of Torah brings us one step closer to the fulfillment of Moshiach's deepest yearning, and our own.

May we merit to witness that day speedily in our time. Amen.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The DNA SECRET Of The Jewish Soul

Mon, 3 Aug 2026 10:28:00 AM

Imagine celebrating your 40th wedding anniversary, and your wife stands up to make a toast.

She smiles and says:

“Don't think for one moment that I married you because you're handsome, kind, thoughtful, romantic, intelligent, hardworking, honest, funny, or compassionate.”

You're beginning to sweat...

Then she continues:

“No. I married you because every other guy I met was even worse!”

And just when you're trying to process that, she adds:

“Now that I've gotten that off my chest... let's go celebrate. I'm still in love with you!”

You'd probably respond:

“I'm not so sure I'm still in love with YOU!”

Yet, believe it or not, this is almost exactly how this week's Torah portion Eikev begins.

Forty years after leaving Egypt, standing at the threshold of the Promised Land, Moses tells the Jewish people:

“Don't think for a moment that G-d is giving you this land because you are righteous.”

These verses raise a fundamental question.

If the Jewish people are not receiving the land because they deserve it, and the Canaanites are losing it because they are even worse, where is the justice?

And if the answer is G-d's promise to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, another question follows.

Why should a promise made centuries earlier continue if their descendants repeatedly fail?

What exactly makes the Jewish people worthy of an eternal covenant?

That question lies at the heart of Judaism.

This is also the secret of genuine self-esteem.

Modern culture often tells us: “You're perfect just the way you are.”

Judaism says something deeper.

You are infinitely valuable because you were created in the image of G-d.

But you were never created to remain where you are.

G-d loves you exactly as you are, but He loves you too much to leave you there.

He believes in your ability to grow, to change, to rise higher tomorrow than you are today.

The Rebbe once told the story of Reb Gershon Ber of Pahar.

Every single night, before going to sleep, he would quietly say in Yiddish:

“Tomorrow will be much more beautiful.”

Not because tomorrow would be easier.

Not because tomorrow would be free of struggle.

But because tomorrow would be another opportunity to become closer to the person G-d created him to be.

That is the story of the Jewish people.

We are not the nation that never falls.

We are the nation that never stops getting back up.

We are not chosen because we are perfect.

We are chosen because we carry within us Abraham's spiritual DNA, the ability to search for truth, to return, to repair, to grow, and to keep moving forward.

That is why G-d continues to believe in us.

And if G-d never gives up on the Jewish people, then none of us should ever give up on ourselves.

Sir Edmund Hillary (1919-2008), the first man to conquer Mount Everest, failed on his first attempt.

Shortly afterward, he spoke in England. Looking at a giant picture of Mount Everest, he pointed at it and declared:

“Mount Everest, you beat me the first time. But I'll beat you next time. Because you've grown all you're going to grow... but I'm still growing.”

A year later, he stood on the summit.

That is Moses' message.

G-d is not asking us to be perfect. He is asking us to keep growing.

Our failures do not define us; our willingness to rise again does.

Every mountain in life is an opportunity, not to prove how strong we are, but to become stronger than we were before.

The mountain has reached its limit. We haven't.

One of the great Chassidic masters, the Chidushei HaRim, explains these verses brilliantly.

Had Moses said that G-d chose us because of our righteousness, we might think that when we fail, the covenant ends.

So Moses says the opposite:

“Do not think it is because of your righteousness.”

The covenant is not based on our perfection-it is based on G-d's eternal promise.

That means every Jew, in every generation, no matter how far they may have fallen, remains part of that same eternal covenant with Hashem.

The nations lost the land because they normalized evil. The Jewish people, by contrast, never stop asking: How can we become better? How can we grow?

That is our spiritual DNA.

More than 3,300 years ago, Moses taught us that our mission does not depend on being perfect. It depends on remaining faithful to our calling.

As long as darkness exists, our mission remains unchanged: to bring more Torah, more mitzvos, more truth, more kindness, and more holiness into the world.

Let's continue Abraham's mission, Moses' vision, and together bring the world to its ultimate redemption. Amen.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Can You Love G-d Without Loving People?

Fri, 24 Jul 2026 10:26:00 AM

This week's Torah portion is Vaetchanan and Shabbat Nachamu, which has in it the Ten Commandments and the Shma prayer.

Of all the moments in Jewish history, none is more sacred than the giving of the Ten Commandments. It was the moment Heaven touched earth,

when G-d revealed His will to humanity. Yet the Torah records something surprising. The greatest moral code ever given was not written on gold, silver,

or parchment. It was engraved on two ordinary stones.

Why stone?

Because everything else changes. Stone endures. Civilizations rise and fall, cultures redefine morality, governments rewrite laws, but the Torah remains as solid and unchanging as the rock upon which it was engraved.

Then the Midrash tells us something astonishing. These were not just ordinary stones. They had a history. Suddenly the Midrash is no longer talking about rocks. It is talking about us.

Which stone do we live on?

Is Judaism primarily about prayer, Shabbat, tefillin and kosher?

Or is it primarily about kindness, honesty, compassion and helping others?

G-d says: Neither. They are one stone.

You cannot claim to love G-d while hurting people created in His image.

And you cannot truly love people while ignoring the G-d who gave every human being infinite dignity.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik once studied with one of Germany's leading ethicists. When the Nazis rose to power, that same professor completely reversed his moral philosophy to justify evil.

The lesson was unforgettable: reason alone can rationalize anything. Without an eternal moral authority, yesterday's virtue can become today's crime.

Perhaps that is why G-d united Jacob's stones before He divided them into two tablets.

Because there were never really two commandments.

There was only one Torah.

Loving G-d without loving people is incomplete.

Loving people without G-d eventually loses its anchor.

The first tablet and the second tablet belong together.

Only when both become one can we become the people G-d intended us to be.

The Nazis prove what happens when you ignore the first tablet. Hamas and Islamic extremism prove what happens when you ignore the second tablet.

May we merit to build lives that unite Heaven and earth, holiness and kindness, faith and compassion—and through that, may we soon merit the rebuilding of the Third Beis Hamikdash, speedily in our days. Amen.

Shabbat Shalom and Shabbat Nachamu,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Words That Build, Not Break

Fri, 17 Jul 2026 10:13:00 AM

Morris had passed away. His attorney gathered the family to read his last will.

"To my beloved wife Esther, I leave our home, 150 acres of land, and one million dollars.

To my son Barry, I leave my Lexus and my new Jaguar.

To my daughter Shirley, I leave my yacht and $250,000.

And to my brother-in-law Aaron, who always insisted that health is better than wealth... I leave my treadmill."

The opening verse in Torah portion Devarim is a highlight reel of the Jewish people's darkest moments, the times they doubted G-d, complained against Him, and betrayed His trust.

Yet notice how Moses delivers his rebuke. Instead of listing their sins explicitly, he simply mentions a series of place names:

"In the wilderness... in the Aravah... opposite Suph... between Paran and Tophel... Lavan... Hazeroth... and Di-Zahav."

Why? Rashi answers:

"Since these are words of rebuke, Moses mentioned the places where Israel angered G-d only by hint, out of respect for the Jewish people."

Out of profound love and respect, Moses concealed his criticism. Rather than embarrass the nation, he wrapped his rebuke in gentle allusions.

But this raises an obvious question.

If someone needs correction, why speak in riddles?

If your child bit another child at school, would you simply say, "Mrs. Cohen's classroom," and hope she understood?

If your teenager came home far too late, would you say, "Josh's house," and expect him to get the message?

Of course not.

If correction is necessary, speak clearly.

And if you don't want to criticize, then remain silent.

So why did Moses choose vague hints instead of direct words?

There is another question.

Why wait until the final month of his life?

Many of these events had occurred forty years earlier.

Why not address them when they happened?

Rashi answers that Moses learned this from Jacob.

Jacob, too, waited until his final moments before offering words of rebuke.

On his deathbed, Jacob gathered his twelve sons to bless them.

Most received blessings. Reuven received something else.

Nearly sixty years earlier, after Rachel's passing, Reuven interfered with Jacob's household arrangements by moving his father's bed from Bilhah's tent to Leah's.

The Torah records only four words: "And Israel heard." Jacob knew.

Yet he said nothing. Not that day. Not that year. Not for nearly sixty years.

Only on his deathbed did Jacob finally say:

"Reuven, you are my firstborn... but because you acted impulsively, you forfeited the privileges of the firstborn."

Why wait so long? Rashi explains Jacob's reasoning. Jacob told Reuven:

"I did not rebuke you earlier because I feared you would leave me and attach yourself to my brother Esau."

That is astonishing. Would a justified rebuke really drive Reuven away from his father and toward Esau?

And if so, why rebuke him now? Esau was still alive!

The answer is one of the Torah's deepest lessons.

Every one of us wants to grow. We know our weaknesses. We know our failures.

The problem is that when someone points them out, we often don't hear loving guidance.

We hear rejection. We hear: "You're not good enough." "You disappointed me again."

"You'll never change."

And so we become defensive.

But when criticism comes from someone whose love is unquestionable, everything changes.

Instead of hearing rejection, we hear faith.

Instead of hearing condemnation, we hear confidence.

"I know who you are." "I believe in you."

"You can become even greater." That is why Jacob waited.

Only after a lifetime of unconditional love could Reuven hear criticism without mistaking it for rejection.

The same is true of Moses. After forty years of carrying, protecting, defending, and loving the Jewish people, they knew that every word he spoke came from love.

His rebuke was not meant to push them away. It was meant to lift them higher.

A coach whose players know he genuinely cares about them can challenge them to greatness.

But if they believe he is only angry or disappointed, they shut down.

The same is true of parents, spouses, friends, and leaders.

Criticism given without love wounds.

Criticism rooted in love transforms.

Rabbi Sholom Ber Gordon began serving as the rabbi of an Orthodox synagogue in Newark in 1949.

At the time, Newark had a large Jewish population, but Jewish observance was weak.

Few people kept Shabbat, ate kosher, or sent their children to Jewish day schools.

The young rabbi did what he believed a rabbi should do. Week after week, he urged his congregation to stop driving on Shabbat, keep kosher, and provide their children with a Jewish education.

After several weeks, the synagogue president visited him.

"Rabbi," he said, "this is America. If you keep criticizing the congregation, you'll soon be looking for another job. Tell them they're good Jews. Compliment them, not criticize them."

Rabbi Gordon was torn. If he spoke honestly, he might lose his position. If he remained silent, he would fail in his responsibility as a rabbi.

As a devoted chassid, he traveled to seek the advice of the Previous Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, who was then seriously ill.

After listening carefully, the Rebbe looked at him and asked,

"Have you ever been in a shvitz, a sauna?"

"Yes," Rabbi Gordon replied. "What happens there?"

Rabbi Gordon explained that people sit in the intense heat, moving from one bench to another, each hotter than the last.

The Rebbe then asked, "At the highest bench, is there an attendant?"

"Yes," Rabbi Gordon answered. "When people are burning from the heat, the attendant strikes their backs with a rough broom."

"And what do they say?" "They ask him to hit them again." The Rebbe smiled.

"Now imagine that same attendant walked out into the street and struck someone with that broom. What would happen?"

Rabbi Gordon was silent. "The man would call the police, or hit him back."

"But after warming a person, raising him higher and higher, filling him with heat, then even when he is struck, he asks for more."

Then the Rebbe delivered the lesson that Rabbi Gordon never forgot.

"Don't begin by criticizing your congregation. First turn your synagogue into a shvitz. Fill it with warmth, inspiration, Torah, and love. Lift people higher and higher until their souls are on fire.

Then, when you challenge them to grow, they won't resent your words; they'll ask for more."

Rabbi Gordon later said that this one conversation gave him all the guidance he ever needed for the rest of his rabbinate.

This coming Wednesday night we begin Tisha B'Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar.

For nearly two thousand years, this day has silently rebuked us. It reminds us of the destruction of both Holy Temples in Jerusalem, the First in 423 BCE and the Second in 69 CE, which, as we say in the Musaf prayers, were destroyed "because of our sins."

Our Sages teach that the Second Temple was destroyed because of baseless hatred between Jews.

Yet as we begin the Book of Devarim, we discover something remarkable.

Moses opens with words of rebuke, but he delivers them with profound love.

As Rashi explains, "Out of respect for Israel, he only hinted at their sins."

The rebuke was never meant to shame. It was meant to elevate.

The Rebbe explained that in Judaism, genuine rebuke is always wrapped in love. Its purpose is never to push a Jew away, but to help him discover the greatness that already exists within him.

On Thursday, as we sit on the floor and read Megillas Eichah, we will chant its heartbreaking opening words:

"How lonely sits the city that was once so full of people."

Jerusalem mourns.

The Jewish people mourn.

But the Rebbe pointed out something extraordinary.

The word "badad" alone does not only describe loneliness.

It also reminds us of Bilaam's prophetic blessing:

"Behold, it is a nation that dwells alone and is not reckoned among the nations."

The very word that describes our exile also describes our greatness.

We are "alone" because we are unique.

We are a people entrusted with a Divine mission, living by eternal values, dedicated to bringing G-dliness into the world.

Even in the opening verse of the saddest book in Tanach, G-d reminds us of our dignity.

As the Midrash says:

"Why are Israel compared to an olive? Just as oil never blends with other liquids but always rises above them, so too the Jewish people remain distinct among the nations." (Shemos Rabbah 36:1)

That is the message of Tisha B'Av.

Even in destruction, G-d's love never leaves us.

Even in rebuke, His faith in us never wavers.

And because we remain bound to Him, inseparable through every exile and every challenge, may we very soon witness the full revelation of Kavod Yisrael, the honor of the Jewish people, with the rebuilding of the Third and everlasting Beis HaMikdash, speedily in our days.

Shabbat Shalom, and may we only share good news,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Why Can Criticism Hurt So Much?

Fri, 10 Jul 2026 10:11:00 AM

It is funny, but it raises a serious question.

Why do compliments make us feel so good, while criticism can hurt so much?

And what happens when the criticism is directed not only at us personally, but at the Jewish people and Israel?

This Shabbat we read the portions of Matot and Masei and conclude the book of Bamidbar.

The Jewish people stood at one of the greatest moments in their history.

After forty years in the wilderness, they were finally preparing to enter the Promised Land.

But before crossing the Jordan River, the tribes of Reuven and Gad, who possessed enormous flocks, approached Moshe with an unexpected request.

The fertile land on the eastern side of the Jordan was ideal for their livestock, and they asked permission to settle there instead of receiving territory inside the Land of Israel.

Moshe's response was immediate and fierce. "Shall your brothers go to war while you remain here? Why would you discourage the hearts of the Children of Israel?"

For ten verses, Moshe rebukes them with extraordinary intensity.

Throughout this entire rebuke, something remarkable happens.

They say... nothing.

Not a single interruption.

Only after Moshe finishes speaking do they calmly reply:

"We have no intention of abandoning our brothers. We will fight alongside every tribe until the Land has been conquered. Only afterward will we return to our families."

Moshe immediately accepts their proposal.

Which raises an obvious question.

If this had been their intention from the very beginning, why didn't they interrupt Moshe after his very first sentence?

Why allow him to continue rebuking them for ten full verses?

Up All Night

A beautiful Chassidic story answers this question.

The Chiddushei HaRim raised his orphaned grandson, the future Sfas Emes, one of the greatest Torah scholars of the nineteenth century.

As a young boy, the Sfas Emes would often spend entire nights immersed in Torah study.

One morning, after learning almost the whole night, he fell asleep shortly before dawn and arrived late for prayers.

His grandfather noticed.

After services, the Chiddushei HaRim lovingly, but firmly, rebuked his grandson.

He explained at length the importance of discipline, rising early, overcoming laziness, and greeting each day with enthusiasm to serve Hashem.

The young Sfas Emes stood silently.

He never interrupted.

He never explained that he had been awake all night learning Torah.

A friend who had studied with him asked afterward,

"Why didn't you simply tell your grandfather the truth? One sentence would have ended the entire rebuke."

The young Sfas Emes gave an unforgettable answer.

"To hear words of rebuke from my saintly grandfather is a once-in-a-lifetime privilege. Why would I want to lose such an opportunity? Every word he spoke could help me become a better person."

Then the Sfas Emes pointed to our Torah portion.

That, he explained, is exactly why the tribes of Reuven and Gad remained silent.

They understood that listening to the words of Moshe Rabbeinu was itself a tremendous blessing.

Even though they knew he had misunderstood them.

Even though they could have defended themselves immediately.

They chose first to listen.

Because hearing words of truth from a great teacher is never a loss.

It is a gift.

Why is it hard for us? Why do so many of us jump at the first criticism we hear? Why do we implode or explode when someone criticizes us?

There are two reasons, and they are really interconnected: insecurity and arrogance, which often stems from insecurity.

Often when a wife says, "Why did you do this," what her husband hears is not "I am wondering why you did this," but a much harsher message: You are worthless. You never get it right. In her criticism, he hears not a comment on a specific issue, but rather a judgment on his core value.

This usually has nothing to do with the one criticizing but with the one being criticized, with his or her own projections.

When I feel deep down that I am worthless, then I hear everything in that context.

When someone tells me, "you are wrong," or "you could have really done it better," what I may be hearing, consciously or unconsciously, is: "I am a mistake. I am always wrong. I can never get anything right. I am a born loser."

No wonder I implode, or explode. It is too much to handle.

The first thing to know is that you matter absolutely. G-d loves you. And His love is unconditional.

You must always remember that your performance never determines your value.

Your core is not shaped by what other people say or think.

Your soul, your identity, is a fragment of the Divine, and hence has inherent, unshakable, non-negotiable, and absolute value which can never be destroyed.

When other people's comments about you and to you do not define the value of your existence, then you need not fear criticism.

When you have a solid core, you can listen gracefully to criticism.

Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a person's growth without destroying his roots.

The second condition to appreciate criticism, in addition to that recognition of your immutable self-worth, is humility.

I must always possess the awareness that I am not there yet. There is so much more to learn, and so much more to grow.

This combination, true inner confidence coupled with a yearning to grow and humility, allows you to cherish and celebrate critique.

So next time your wife says, "How could you do this?" before getting upset, go to the mirror and say: I am good. I am fine. G-d loves me. I am wholesome. No one can destroy me. And then you will usually come to appreciate and grow from the criticism.

You might even learn that your wife never meant to cut you down. She perhaps assumes that you are confident enough, and is simply having a conversation with you.

And just like the members of the tribe of Reuven and Gad, you will look forward to critique.

Just a couple of days ago, Iran threw 8 political activists in prison for a total of 127 years, just for criticizing the government on social media. This is how Iran deals with criticism.

At her core, Israel is indomitable, no matter what her enemies throw at her.

The Guardian of Israel will not sleep or slumber, and nothing can ever change that.

Let us offer thanks to G-d for the extraordinary miracles in Israel over the last two weeks and pray that our people remain safe, and that the Almighty grants Israel's leaders the resolve to make the right choices and the resolve to see them through.

Shabbat Shalom, Chazak, Chazak, Venitchazek,

Why America's 250th Anniversary Is Also a Jewish Story

Fri, 3 Jul 2026 10:53:00 AM

This Shabbat is unlike any other.

As America celebrates its 250th birthday, the Jewish people begin the solemn period of the Three Weeks, beginning with the Fast of the Seventeenth of Tammuz—the day Jerusalem's walls were breached, leading to the destruction of both Holy Temples.

One day celebrates the birth of a nation.

The other reminds us never to forget our eternal home.

No nation has given the Jewish people greater freedom, opportunity, and security than the United States of America. Millions of Jews arrived on these shores with little more than hope, and America welcomed them with liberty and dignity. For that, we owe this great country a profound debt of gratitude.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe often spoke about America's unique mission. He saw this nation not only as a beacon of democracy, but as a force for faith, morality, and goodness throughout the world.

Yet, as grateful as we are, every Jew knows one timeless truth:

America may be our home—but it has never replaced our Homeland.

For nearly four thousand years, every Jewish heart faced Jerusalem. No matter where our ancestors lived, in Babylonia, Poland, Morocco, Iran, Yemen, Russia, or Lithuania, they ended the Seder with "Next Year in Jerusalem" and every wedding with "If I forget thee, O Jerusalem."

Then history changed.

For the first time, millions of Jews settled on the opposite side of the globe. Many feared that the farther Jews moved from Israel, the farther they would drift from Judaism.

Sadly, for many families, that happened.

My great-grandparents were observant Jews in Russia. My parents came to America seeking freedom but made a conscious decision to remain proudly Jewish. Today, my children and grandchildren study Torah, speak Hebrew, attend Jewish schools, and proudly carry our heritage into the future.

That miracle did not happen by accident.

It happened because the Rebbe refused to give up on American Jewry. He believed that no Jew was too distant, no soul was ever lost, and no family was beyond hope. Instead of asking Jews to search for Judaism across the ocean, he brought Judaism to every Jew, wherever they lived.

This July Fourth, I will proudly thank G-d for America, for its freedoms, its opportunities, and its friendship with the Jewish people.

But I will also remember Jerusalem.

Because the greatest gift America has given us is not that we forgot who we are.

It is that we have the freedom to remember who we are.

May G-d bless the United States of America, protect and bless Israel and its courageous soldiers, and may we soon witness the day

when all Jews return home together with the coming of Moshiach.

Shabbat Shalom, Happy Independence Day, and Happy America 250!

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

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