www.chabadgn.com | Blogs | Parasha Insights

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

The People Who Changed The World!

Thu, 4 Jun 2026 3:55:00 PM

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

“O G-d! Before You, I am nothing!”

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

“O G-d! Before You, I am nothing!”

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

“O G-d! Before You, I am nothing!”

The chazzan nudged the rabbi and whispered:

“Look who thinks he's nothing.”

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

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

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

Determined to prove her wrong, he called.

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

The answer came back:

“Fresh or frozen?”

Human beings love titles, recognition, and honor.

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

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

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

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

The answer lies in understanding what humility really is.

Humility Is Not Self-Negation

Rabbi Rafael of Barshad once said:

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

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

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

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

But then they'll ask:

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

And for that I will have no answer."

Humility does not mean denying your gifts.

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

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

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

"I'm Under Oath"

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

The judge asked:

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

"The leading spokesman?" "Yes."

"The senior rabbi?" "Yes."

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

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

Humility is not pretending greatness doesn't exist.

Humility is remembering who gave it to you.

Holding Others High

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described watching Queen Elizabeth meet Holocaust survivors.

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

One survivor after another approached her.

She listened patiently to every story.

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

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

Moses knew exactly who he was.

But he never confused gifts with ownership.

Everything he possessed was a trust from Heaven.

The greatest leader in history never asked:

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

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

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

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

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

Rav Yosef understood that all his greatness was a gift.

His job was simply to use it.

Come See What a Human Being Is

Rabbi Yaakov Yosef suffered a stroke late in life.

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

On Shabbat Shuvah, he insisted on delivering a sermon.

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

Finally, he looked at the congregation and said:

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

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

Because they suddenly understood. Everything can disappear.

Only our relationship with G-d endures.

In the Rebbe's Office

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described his first meeting with the Rebbe.

He expected charisma. Instead, he encountered listening.

Complete listening. Years later, Rabbi Sacks wrote:

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

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

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

The Sermon I Never Gave

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

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

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

Not because he understood the words.

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

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

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

The father looked at me and said:

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

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

"You thought the sermon was about your honor.

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

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

The Greatest Person in the Room

The arrogant person walks into a room and asks:

"Who appreciates me?"

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

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

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

The arrogant person fills the room with himself.

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

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

Because he was never focused on being great.

He was focused on serving something greater than himself.

And perhaps that is the deepest definition of humility:

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

The Three Blessings That Can Save a Child

Thu, 28 May 2026 3:54:00 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These are not just blessings.

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

The Tears of a Father

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

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

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

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

Empires rose and collapsed. Nations disappeared.

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

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

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

Eighty Orphan Girls

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

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

Then there was a knock on the door.

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

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

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

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

Think about this moment.

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

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

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

The Greatest Parenting Manual Ever Written

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

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

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

First Blessing: Build them and protect them

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

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

Protection is not punishment. Protection is love.

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

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

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

The Plant Story

Two neighbors planted gardens.

One constantly flooded his plants with water and attention.

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

Then came a violent storm. The overwatered plants collapsed.

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

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

Second Blessing: Smile at your child

“May Hashem shine His face upon you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Your Son Falls

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

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

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

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

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

That is parenting.

Third Blessing: Never Turn Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cinnamon Buns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is the third blessing.

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

Never stop believing. Never stop loving.

The Face of Hashem

Perhaps this is why these blessings survived every exile.

Because they are not merely words.

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

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

And when they stumble, never turn away.

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

“No matter where life takes you…

you will always have a home in my heart.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Are You Chosen — or Just Jewish?

Thu, 21 May 2026 3:52:00 PM

This Shavuot, we are not simply commemorating history.

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

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

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

At that moment, the Jewish people became eternal.

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

And look at history.

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

But the Jewish people still live and are strong.

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

How?

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

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

But today we celebrate something infinitely greater.

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

Think about that.

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

We are still here.

Am Yisrael Chai.

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

The greatest miracle is the survival of the Jewish people.

Because seas split once.

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

The Secret of Jewish Confidence

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

Rabbi Lau answered:

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

He explained:

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

What powerful words.

A Jew never stands alone.

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

When a Jew stands tall, eternity stands tall.

Sinai Still Lives

Sometimes we wonder:

Are we really the same Jews who stood at Sinai?

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

The answer is yes.

And the world itself proves it.

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

Because Sinai still lives.

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

Darkness hates light.

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

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

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

The Alarm Clock of Humanity

Maurice Samuel once remarked:

“No man loves his alarm clock.”

The Jewish people are the world’s alarm clock.

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

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

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

No Soul Is Ever Forgotten

And this brings us to Yizkor.

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

But Yizkor teaches us something eternal:

No Jewish soul is ever forgotten.

There is a remarkable story

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

The pain shattered him emotionally.

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

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

At one point, the general mentioned losing 32 soldiers.

The Rebbe gently corrected him:

“Not 32.
34.”

The general believed the Rebbe was mistaken.

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

Months later, the general asked the Rebbe:

“How did you know?”

The Rebbe tapped his desk and answered:

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

What a powerful thought.

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

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

This Is Our Moment

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

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

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

The answer to darkness is not fear.

The answer is more light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

When the Most Powerful Nation Honors Shabbat

Thu, 14 May 2026 3:51:00 PM

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

Empires worshiped power.

Civilizations worshiped money.

Kings worshiped conquest.

Modern society worships speed.

And the Jew?

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

Turned off the world.

Lit two candles.

And declared:

“There is something greater than business.

Greater than technology.

Greater than ambition.

Greater even than man himself.”

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

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

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

Think about the magnitude of this moment.

After centuries in which Jews were persecuted for keeping Shabbat…

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

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

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

Not merely a day of rest.

A secret for survival.

A remedy for the soul.

A sanctuary in time.

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

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

More entertainment—yet more emptiness.

More connection—yet more loneliness.

More information—yet less wisdom.

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

And suddenly, an ancient voice breaks through the chaos:

“Stop.”

Stop chasing.

Stop scrolling.

Stop calculating.

Stop trying to control the universe.

For one holy day, breathe.

For one holy day, remember your soul.

For one holy day, remember your Creator.

This was the gift of Shabbat.

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

That life is more than production.

That holiness begins when the noise ends.

The Romans are gone.

The Greeks are gone.

The Soviets are gone.

The Nazis are gone.

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

A father will still bless his children.

A little child will still sing “Shalom Aleichem.”

The empires vanished.

The Shabbat table remained.

Because Shabbat did not merely preserve the Jews.

Shabbat created the Jews.

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

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

Friday night.

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

Without holiness, man loses himself.

Without stillness, the soul suffocates.

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

This is why this moment feels so significant.

Not because America suddenly became religious.

Not because politics changed.

But because buried beneath this declaration is a profound admission:

The world desperately needs what Shabbat represents.

Faith.

Family.

Meaning.

Soul.

Rest.

G-d.

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

But when nations begin to recognize its beauty…

when humanity begins to rediscover the holiness of stopping…

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

It feels like the beginning of an awakening.

Perhaps this is what the prophets envisioned:

A world slowly emerging from spiritual darkness.

A world beginning to thirst once again for the Divine.

Because Shabbat is not simply a day off.

Shabbat is a declaration to all of humanity:

Hashem is the Creator of the world.

Man is not alone.

Life has purpose.

The soul matters.

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

To live Shabbat with joy.

With fire.

With pride.

With beauty.

Not mechanically.

Not out of habit.

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

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

Then let it see the light.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

Your Story Is Not Over

Fri, 8 May 2026 7:00:00 AM

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

The bartender serves four. Down they go.

“Three shots!”

Then two.

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

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

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

The Promise Hidden Inside the Curse

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

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

History painfully proved these words true.

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

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

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

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

He would quote the verse:

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

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

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

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

As long as nature exists, the Jew exists.

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

Your story is not over.

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

A child asked the Four Questions. Then he added:

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

His father answered:

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

Then the boy asked a sixth question:

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

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

The father and son were murdered.

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

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

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks pointed out something astonishing.

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

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

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

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

“Israel has perished forever.”

Every empire wrote the Jewish obituary.

Egypt.

Babylon.

Rome.

The Inquisition.

Hitler.

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

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

Jewish history defies the laws of history.

The Wallet

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

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

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

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

The wallet eventually reached Rabbi Grossman in Israel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Torah survived the Nazi.

The Jew survived the empire that sought to erase him.

The Zohar takes the verse even deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Small.

Vulnerable.

Outnumbered.

Still here.

Still praying.

Still believing.

Still building.

Still asking the Four Questions.

The Rebuke came true.

But so did the promise at its end.

No exile is endless.

No darkness is final.

No enemy has the final word.

Without hope, Judaism could not have survived.

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

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

But above all stands one eternal truth:

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom and Chazak Chazak Vanitchazek!

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

When Power Meets Faith

Thu, 30 Apr 2026 9:32:00 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Many still believe this today.

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

Strong people build. Weak people pray.

That is the myth.

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

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

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

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

Judaism does not see faith as a retreat from life.

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

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

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

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

Every answer opens ten new questions.

Maimonides wrote nearly a thousand years ago:

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

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

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

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

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

Everything in creation seems to know its mission.

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

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

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

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

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

The Kohen represented Divine service before the nation.

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

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

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

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

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

It takes greatness to serve something higher than yourself.

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

How to Respect the People We Love?

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 6:00:00 AM

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

Finally, the door swung open.

A disheveled man stood there, breathing heavily.

The salesman straightened himself and asked politely:

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

The man wiped his brow and replied:

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

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

But behind the humor lies a serious truth:

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

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

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

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

But this is astonishing.

Rabbi Akiva’s most famous teaching is:

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

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

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

Unless love and respect are not the same thing.

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

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

There are people you both love and like.

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

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

But do you always like them?

Not necessarily.

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

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

Love exists. Liking may need work.

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

So what is the difference?

Love comes from connection.

Respect comes from recognition.

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

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

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

But respect is different.

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

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

Love says:

You belong to me.

Respect says:

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

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

Great relationships require both.

Someone once asked:

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

The answer?

Ask the anti-Semite about Jews as a people:

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

Then ask him:

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

He answers: Those Jews are different.

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

Now ask a Jew about the Jewish people.

His eyes fill with tears.

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

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

“Him? A thief.”

And the fellow on the left?

“A nudnik.”

And the brother-in-law?

“Let’s discuss something else.”

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

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

We are one family.

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

But love alone is not enough.

A Tale of Two Carpets

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

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

Soon, the governor issued a terrifying decree:

Every Jew must convert to Islam or face death.

The Jewish community was paralyzed with fear.

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

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

“Leave this to my sisters and me.”

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

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

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

The delegation stood trembling before the ruler.

They presented the gifts.

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

The second carpet was completely plain.

Solid red. Nothing more.

The governor exploded.

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

The oldest Jew stepped forward and bowed.

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

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

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

Now tell us honestly:

Would you exchange the first carpet for the second?”

The governor was silent.

Then he rescinded the decree.

Because wisdom understands:

Uniformity is simple. Diversity is beautiful.

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

But one count belongs to every individual: Sefirat Haomer

The Torah says: You shall count for yourselves.

Each person must count personally.

No one can count for you. Why?

Because these weeks teach us that every soul matters.

Month of Nissan — Love

Pesach is the birth of the Jewish nation.

In Nissan, we became one people.

Nissan teaches us to love each other.

Month of Iyar — Respect

During Iyar, we count each day separately.

Day 1.
Day 2.
Day 3.

Every day is distinct. Every day is precious.

Iyar teaches us to honor individuality.

Month of Sivan — Harmony

Then comes Sivan, the month of Torah.

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

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

Unity without individuality is not Torah.

Individuality without unity is not Torah.

Torah is both.

Rabbi Akiva’s students surely loved the Jewish people.

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

They loved the whole. They diminished the individual.

They valued truth, but not enough tenderness.

They defended principles, but not enough people.

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

Why Lag BaOmer Is Joy

On Lag BaOmer, the plague stopped.

Something changed. They finally understood:

Love is not enough. You must also respect.

You must not only embrace those who are like you.

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

That is why children parade on Lag BaOmer.

A parade is one people moving in one direction.

Yet every child walks differently.

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

And all march together. That is holiness.

The Message for Every Home

Many families have love.

Not every family has respect.

Many communities have loyalty.

Not every community has dignity.

Many marriages are committed.

Not every marriage has listening.

Many schools have standards.

Not every school has sensitivity.

Love says: Stay close to me.

Respect says: I will make space for you.

And where both exist, the Divine Presence enters.

Final Thought

Rabbi Akiva taught: Love your fellow as yourself.

His students had to learn the next lesson:

Respect your fellow for being himself.

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

Because when we learn to do both, to love deeply

and respect differences.

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky

www.chabadgn.com | Blogs | Parasha Insights

The DNA SECRET Of The Jewish Soul

Can You Love G-d Without Loving People?

Words That Build, Not Break

Why Can Criticism Hurt So Much?

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

The Power of Believing in Others

No Brother or Sister Left Behind

The Five Languages of Love

The People Who Changed The World!

The Three Blessings That Can Save a Child

Are You Chosen — or Just Jewish?

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

Your Story Is Not Over

The Promise Hidden Inside the Curse

The Wallet

When Power Meets Faith

How to Respect the People We Love?

When the Most Powerful Nation Honors Shabbat