Explorez tous les épisodes du podcast Parsha with Rabbi David Bibi

 We have all heard
the remarkable story of Naḥum Ish Gamzu, the great sage who was sent to the
Roman emperor carrying a chest of precious jewels, only to discover that
thieves had replaced the treasure with ordinary dirt. Facing the emperor’s fury
and the threat of death, Naḥum responded with his famous words, Gam zu letovah
— this too is for the good. Miraculously, the dirt became powerful weapons,
saving Naḥum and bringing victory to the emperor. But why dirt? Of all the ways
HaShem could have performed this miracle, why choose something so seemingly
worthless? In Wednesday morning’s Breakfast & Class, we revisit this
familiar Gemara through an extraordinary insight shared by Rabbi Yissocher
Frand in the name of the Ostrovtzer Rebbe, revealing a profound connection to
Avraham Avinu’s declaration, Ve’anokhi afar va’efer
— “I am dust and ashes.” 

From
Avraham’s miraculous victory over powerful armies to Rabbi Ḥanina’s fearless
encounter with a sorceress, and the remarkable faith of the Brisker Rav while
escaping Nazi Europe, we explore the extraordinary power of Ein od milvado
— there is nothing besides HaShem. What does it really mean to recognize that
our intelligence, strength, accomplishments, and even our next breath are gifts
from Heaven? And how can we develop genuine faith when life takes unexpected
and sometimes frightening turns? Perhaps the greatest lesson of Naḥum Ish Gamzu
is that he declared Gam zu letovahbefore
he knew how the story would end. Join us for an
inspiring journey into humility, trust, and the limitless possibilities that
emerge when we recognize the true Source of our strength. After all, if HaShem
can transform a handful of dirt into something extraordinary, imagine what He
can accomplish through us.  

What if someone could tell you your future—would knowing it help you live better today? A surprising encounter at a Laniado Hospital dinner, a family story from India in 1948, and an astrological recording made for my eighteenth birthday open this journey into the less familiar chapters of Avraham’s life. We revisit Teraḥ’s idol shop, Nimrod’s furnace, Haran’s fatal hesitation, and Avraham’s return to his father, discovering a family story far more complex than the one many of us remember from childhood.

Drawing on Ramban, Or HaḤayim, the Shelah, Kedushat Levi, and Maharal, we explore the meaning of celestial influence, free choice, and Hashem’s promise of a future Avraham could not yet see. Why did the man of kindness go to war? How did Teraḥ’s life change? And what does it mean that Hashem raised Avraham above the stars? “Avraham: The Man Who Stepped Beyond the Stars” invites us to reconsider the limits we place on others and ourselves—and learn to live faithfully while the future remains unknown.

 “It’s not easy not knowing where you’re going!” Those were the unforgettable words of Rabbi Nosson Tzvi Finkel, the legendary Rosh Yeshiva of Mir, as he reflected upon HaShem’s command to Avraham Avinu: “Lech Lecha — Go forth from your land, your birthplace, and your father’s house, to the land that I will show you.” But why didn’t HaShem simply tell Avraham where he was going? Why ask him to leave everything familiar without revealing his destination? And isn’t that the story of our own lives? We make plans, set goals, and imagine what tomorrow will bring, yet none of us truly knows where life’s journey will lead. In
Monday morning’s Breakfast and a Class, we explore the Or HaḤayim’s remarkable insights into Avraham’s three departures, the Midrash’s description of a nisayon betoch nisayon—a test within a test—and the extraordinary faith required to take the first step when the road ahead remains hidden. 

Along the way, we encounter two remarkable stories from the Gemara. Rabbi Yosef returns from a glimpse of the World to Come declaring, “Olam hafukh ra’iti — I saw an upside-down world!” His father responds, “Olam barur ra’ita — You saw a world of clarity.” And Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat, suffering in terrible poverty, asks HaShem why his life must be so difficult, only to discover how little we understand of the greater picture. Together, these stories reveal a profound lesson: Sometimes HaShem is not simply leading us to a different destination; He is teaching us to see life through different eyes. Avraham did not know where the road would lead, but he knew Who was leading him. Join us for a
moving exploration of emunah, bitahon, the mysteries of Divine Providence, and
the courage to keep walking even when we cannot see what lies ahead. 

 🌈 THE RAINBOW — WHEN HEAVEN PUT DOWN ITS BOW
Parashat Noaḥ 

We see a rainbow and marvel at its beauty. But the Torah tells us that this
magnificent display of colors is actually a reminder of the destruction of the
world—and Hashem’s promise never again to bring a flood that destroys all
humanity. Why did Hashem choose a rainbow, a bow traditionally associated with warfare, as His eternal symbol of peace? And why does the Gemara tell us that during the lifetime of Rabbi Shimon bar Yoḥai, no rainbow ever appeared? Could it be that the greatest blessings are not always the miracles we witness, but the disasters that never happen, the storms that never arrive, and the rainbows we never need? 

In this morning’s Breakfast & Class, we explore the Ramban’s beautiful explanation of the rainbow as a weapon turned away in peace, the extraordinary merit of Rabbi Shimon bar Yoḥai, and the mystical significance of the rainbow’s three principal colors, representing Avraham, Yitzḥak, and Yaakov. We discover why unity does not require uniformity, how different personalities and strengths can come together to create something magnificent, and why the greatest expression of righteousness may be the protection and blessing we bring into other people’s lives. Sometimes Hashem sends a rainbow into the clouds, and sometimes He sends a person into our lives. The challenge is to become that person for someone else.  

 THE LIGHT BEYOND THE LIGHT — THE SECRET OF SHABBAT CANDLES 

Why
do we light two small Shabbat candles when our dining rooms are already
brilliantly illuminated by chandeliers and electric lights? What are those
little flames actually illuminating? In this morning’s Breakfast and a Class,
we began with this simple question and discovered an extraordinary world hidden
within one of our most familiar mitzvot. Drawing upon the Gemara, the Ben Ish
Hai, the Zohar, and the teachings of the Arizal, we explored the deeper meaning
of the two candles, Zachor
and Shamor,
the relationship between husband and wife, and the mysterious Sukkat Shalom—the
canopy of Divine peace that descends upon the Jewish home as Shabbat begins. We
also examined the fascinating Kabbalistic connection between the candles, the
Divine Name Shaddai, and the transformation of judgment into mercy. 

But
perhaps the most moving part of our journey came through the Shelah HaKadosh
and the story of Hannah, whose heartfelt prayers brought Shemuel HaNavi into
the world. Why does the Shelah connect Hannah’s prayer with the moment a mother
lights her Shabbat candles? And how can two flames that burn for only a few
hours continue illuminating a family for generations? Along the way, we also
addressed a practical halachic question: What happens when we light candles and
leave for Shabbat dinner elsewhere, returning only after the candles have
burned out? Join us as we discover that the chandelier allows us to see everything in the room, but
the Shabbat candles remind us of everything that truly matters in the room.
Shabbat Shalom! 

 Three Lives, Two Storms, and One Extraordinary Second Chance 

Thursday Morning Breakfast & Class | October 15, 2026 

What if the stories of Noaḥ and the Flood, Yonah HaNavi and the great fish, and
Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, were not three separate stories at all? What if the
same souls returned across generations, each given another opportunity to
correct the mistakes of the past? In this morning’s fascinating Breakfast &
Class, based on the teachings of Rabbi Pinḥas Friedman and the great mekubalim, we uncover extraordinary connections hidden within these familiar biblical narratives. Why was the righteous Noaḥ originally included in the decree of destruction? Why does the prophet Yeshayahu call the Flood “Mei Noaḥ”—the
waters of Noaḥ? What is the connection between Noaḥ and Yonah, and why do the words of the ship’s captain, “Mah lecha nirdam?”—Why are you sleeping?—sound so familiar from our forty days of Selichot? Even the dove sent from the ark and the great fish that swallowed Yonah reveal remarkable secrets about the journey of the neshamah and the possibility of spiritual rebirth. 

But perhaps the most astonishing revelation concerns Pharaoh himself. According to a remarkable Midrash, the Pharaoh who refused to listen to Moshe Rabbenu was given another opportunity to repent as the king of Nineveh—and this time, he listened! How do these extraordinary journeys intersect, and what do they teach us about gilgul neshamot, tikkun, and Hashem’s infinite patience? From the twelve months Noaḥ spent caring for the animals in the ark, to Yonah’s three days inside the fish, to a once-arrogant king humbling himself in sackcloth and ashes, we discover a profound message of hope: Our mistakes need not become our final chapter. Hashem gives us opportunities to repair what we have damaged, to accomplish what we have neglected, and to become what we were meant to be. We may not remember what our neshamah came into this world to correct, but we can be certain that Hashem has given us today for a reason.  

 Why Hashem Asked Noaḥ to Build an Ark Instead of Simply Saving Him 

When the world around Noaḥ was collapsing into corruption, violence, and moral
chaos, Hashem did something extraordinary. He gave Noaḥ a construction
project—complete with precise measurements, compartments, three levels, and a
source of light. But why would the Creator of the universe, who could have
saved Noaḥ with a single word, require him to spend years building an enormous
wooden vessel? In this week’s Shabbat class, we explore the remarkable
Midrashim and teachings of our Sages, the Zohar, and the Ba’al Shem Tov to
discover that the Ark was far more than a means of survival. It was a blueprint
for rebuilding a world through self-control, responsibility, kindness, and the
extraordinary power of human speech. We discover how the Teivah
becomes a symbol of the words we speak, how those words can create shalom,
and how even in moments of tzarah—distress—we can find a tzohar, a source of light. But perhaps the most powerful lesson comes after the Flood, when Hashem commands Noaḥ to leave the very Ark that had protected him. Through the fascinating contrast between Noaḥ and Abraham, and the teachings of the Sefat Emet on Shabbat and the festivals, we discover that preserving our values is only the beginning.
Ultimately, we must carry those values beyond the safety of our homes,
synagogues, and communities and bring their light into the world. Join us for
this 45-minute journey through Parashat Noaḥ, as we explore a message that
speaks directly to the challenges of our own generation: Hashem did not ask Noaḥ to stop the rain. He asked him to build an Ark. And when the rain stopped, He asked him to leave that Ark and begin building a world. 

 The Ark We Build Before the Rain 

“I wanted to sit in the corner and let other people run the synagogue. Somehow, I was becoming my father.” In Monday morning’s Breakfast & Class, marking the
second day of Rosh Hodesh Heshvan, we explore how the example we witness as
children can become the responsibility we accept as adults. Through the Zera
Shimshon’s explanation of why Noach’s children were saved, Rabbi Abittan’s
memorable teaching about what children see at home, and personal recollections of a father devoted to his community, we consider the lasting influence of the lives we live. 

But example is only the beginning. Drawing on the Sefer HaHinukh and practical
lessons heard from Rabbi Paysach Krohn, we discover how inviting children to
participate—in giving, helping, and serving—can help shape their hearts. As the
holidays give way to ordinary days, this class asks a question for parents,
grandparents, and all of us: What are we teaching through our actions, and who
are we inviting to work alongside us? 

 FROM SEVEN TO EIGHT 

Rosh Hodesh Cheshvan — A New Beginning 

Sunday Morning’s Breakfast & Class 

We have just completed an extraordinary month of spiritual elevation. From the
shofar of Rosh Hashanah to the forgiveness of Yom Kippur, the embrace of the
Sukkah, and the joy of Simhat Torah, Tishrei surrounded us with opportunities
to draw closer to Hashem. But now comes Cheshvan, a month without a single
holiday. Is something missing, or is Hashem inviting us to discover something
greater? In this morning’s special Rosh Hodesh Breakfast & Class, we
explore the fascinating teachings of the Bnei Yissaschar, the mystical tziruf
of Hashem’s Name associated with Cheshvan, and its remarkable connection to
Yishak Avinu and the number eight. Seven represents the natural world Hashem
has given us. Eight represents our ability—and responsibility—to elevate that
world beyond what nature alone provides. Perhaps Cheshvan has no holidays
because this is the month when Hashem asks us to create the holiness
ourselves. 

This week’s Parashat Noach brings that message to life. The Flood began in Cheshvan, and a year later, Noach emerged from the Ark into a world waiting to be rebuilt. The parashah ultimately leads us to Avraham Avinu, who teaches humanity that our purpose is not merely to inhabit the world Hashem created, but to make it better. Along the way, we discover the beautiful connection between Cheshvan, the sweetness of honey, the eighth day of Berit Milah, and the commitments we made during the High
Holidays. What happens to all those promises once ordinary life resumes? How do we transform Mar Cheshvan, the seemingly bitter month, into something sweet? The real measure of Tishrei is not how inspired we felt during the holidays, but what we build from that inspiration afterward. Join us for a journey from seven to eight, from Noach to Avraham, and from inspiration to lasting transformation. 

 UNITY WITHOUT UNIFORMITY 

There is a question in this week’s parashah that belongs
at every family’s Shabbat table. 

According to one teaching of our Sages, Adam and Ḥava
were originally created joined together. Hashem then separated them into two
individuals. 

But why? 

If He wanted them separate, why create them together? And
if He wanted them together, why separate them? 

Let me share a little parable that can help us think
about the answer. 

Imagine a couple who have been married for fifty years.
Every morning, the husband prepares breakfast. He takes a fresh roll, cuts it,
and places the soft middle portion on his wife’s plate. He keeps the crusty end
for himself. 

For fifty years, that is their routine. 

On their anniversary, as he prepares breakfast, his wife
says gently, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.” 

“Today, would you mind giving me the crusty end?” 

He looks at her in surprise. 

“The crusty end? You want that?” 

“Yes,” she says. “It has always been my favorite part.” 

“Your favorite part? But the soft middle is the best
part! I have been giving it to you all these years because I wanted you to have
the best.” 

She smiles. 

“And I never said anything because I thought you loved
the crust. I didn’t want to take away the part you enjoyed.” 

For fifty years, each had been trying to be kind. Each
had been willing to sacrifice. But neither had asked the other a simple
question: 

“Which part do you like?” 

That is the whole parable. But there is a great deal
inside it. 

Sometimes we love people according to our own
preferences. We give them what we would want. We comfort them with the words
that would comfort us. We plan the evening that we would enjoy. 

Our intentions may be wonderful. But the person we love
is a different person. 

One wants advice; another wants us to listen. One enjoys
a surprise; another wants to know the plan. One needs company after a difficult
day; another needs a few quiet minutes. 

We cannot discover those things by assuming. We have to
ask, and then listen to the answer. 

Perhaps this helps us understand the creation of Adam and
Ḥava. 

Their original unity teaches us connection. The other
person matters to us. Their happiness, their pain, and their needs belong
within our concern. 

Their separation teaches us that the other person has a
life and a perspective of their own. 

The Torah calls Ḥava an ezer kenegdo—a helper
corresponding to Adam, standing opposite him. 

Someone standing opposite us can see what we cannot see.
They can bring something to our lives that we do not already possess. 

But that requires humility. We have to make room for an
answer we did not expect—even something as simple as, “Actually, I like the
crust.” 

Rabbi Abittan, alav hashalom, often taught us that the
Torah trains us in self-control. That lesson belongs especially in our homes. 

Sometimes self-control means holding back a sharp reply.
Sometimes it means allowing someone to finish speaking. And sometimes it means
resisting the urge to say, “I know what you want,” long enough to ask what they
actually want. 

Love needs generosity. It also needs attention. 

So here is a question to bring to the table tonight: 

When we try to make someone happy, how do we know what
will make them happy? 

Let the children answer too. Ask them for an example of
something they enjoy that another person in the family does not. We may learn
something. 

And perhaps ask a second question: 

What is one small thing we could do this week that
someone in our family would appreciate? 

Hashem gave Adam and Ḥava a shared beginning. He left
them the work of building a shared life. 

We carry on that work through patience, kindness, and the
willingness to discover the person beside us. 

Sometimes, after fifty years, that discovery begins with
a piece of bread. 

Shabbat Shalom. 

 BEFORE THE FIRST MITZVAH — Why the Torah Begins with People 

If the Torah is our book of mitzvot, why does it begin with stories? The first
Rashi explains why we need the account of creation—but why not then jump
straight to “Haḥodesh hazeh lakhem,” the first commandment given to the Jewish people as a nation? In Wednesday morning’s Breakfast & Class, we explore a beautiful question and insight shared by Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky in our conversation Tuesday night: perhaps understanding Who created the world is only the beginning. We also need to learn how to live in it. 

Through the lives of Avraham, Yitzḥak, and Yaakov, we discover why Bereshit is called Sefer HaYashar—the Book of the Upright. Avraham pleads for Sedom, Yitzḥak makes room for peace, and Yaakov works honestly for a dishonest employer. Their stories bring the lesson into our own homes, businesses, and relationships: devotion to Hashem must shape how we treat people, especially when honesty, compassion, and restraint are difficult.  

 In our Tuesday morning Safra Class, three years after October 7, we step
back from the individual headlines and ask a larger question: What happens
when we stop looking at each event separately and begin looking at the pattern?
From the extraordinary turns in Israel’s war to Rav Yosef Zvi Rimon’s idea of
the “Divine puzzle,” we explore a world in which every individual event may
have a perfectly reasonable natural explanation—and yet, when the pieces are
placed beside one another, we are left asking: Who is holding the string? 

But Bereishit reminds us that Hashem created man be-tzelem Elokim,
with genuine beḥirah,
and therefore history can never be a simple story of puppets and miracles.
Drawing on the Rambam, the story of Kayin, Rabbi Asher Abittan’s unforgettable
teaching of the “50/50 world,” and the contrasting responses of Yitro
and Amalek, we ask how Divine Providence and human freedom can exist
together—and why two people can witness the same events and see completely
different realities. Ultimately, the question is not only whether we can
recognize Hashem in the story, but whether, after everything we have lived
through, we can recognize one another again.  

 This morning at
Breakfast & Class, we went back to the very beginning—to the first two
verses of the Torah. God creates heaven and earth, and yet almost immediately
we encounter tohu vavohu:
chaos and emptiness, darkness and an unfathomable abyss. Why would a perfect
Creator begin His world this way? Our Sages reveal something remarkable: hidden
within these words is not only the story of Creation, but the entire story of
Jewish history—our exiles, our darkness, and ultimately our redemption. 

BERESHIT — THE LIGHT HIDDEN IN THE
DARKNESS explores the
sparks of holiness concealed within a broken world, the astonishing secret
hidden in the word meraḥefet,
and the Midrash’s teaching that even while darkness covers the abyss, the
spirit of Mashiaḥ is already hovering above it. Perhaps Bereshit is teaching us
one of life’s most important lessons: darkness does not mean that God has
disappeared. Sometimes the light is already there, waiting for us to uncover
it—one mitzvah, one act of ḥesed, one page of Torah, and one spark at a time.  

 What does it
really mean when the Torah describes itself as “Esh Dat Lamo” — a Torah of fire?
As we reach the final words of the Torah on Simḥat Torah, we discover a
remarkable tradition surrounding the Baal Shem Tov and the name of his
daughter, Adele—a name connected to the very letters of Esh Dat Lamo.
From Ḥanokh the shoemaker to a pair of torn shoes that changed a family’s
future, an unexpected thread begins to emerge: Torah is not meant simply to be
studied or even held. It is meant to become a fire that we carry into ordinary
life and then pass forward. 

For
me, this teaching became deeply personal. My mother was Adele, and she lived to
98. At 95, she was still working out and teaching women a fifth of her age how
to train safely with weights—and there is a photograph I treasure of her at
that age holding her tiny great-granddaughter, Orly Adele. This week, another
Adele in our family celebrates with her husband the brit milah of their
long-awaited first child. On Simḥat Torah we finish the Torah and immediately
begin again, because in Judaism nothing holy is meant simply to end. The greatest blessing is not merely
that our children carry our names. It is that they carry our fire.  

 BRING IT BACK TO THE HEART 

The Secret of the Lulav, the Circle, and Hoshana Rabbah 

What would a stranger think walking into synagogue on Sukkot morning? A room full of intelligent, serious people holding palm branches and a strange yellow fruit, moving them in every direction—and then marching in circles around the Torah crying הוֹשַׁע נָא — “Please save us!”
We have performed these rituals since childhood, but perhaps familiarity has
caused us to stop seeing just how extraordinary they really are. 

In this class, we follow the Ben Ish Ḥai and the teachings of the Arizal into the
hidden meaning of these movements: the Or Makif of the sukkah that surrounds us, the shefa we spread outward with the lulav, and the holiness we draw back toward the heart. From the walls of Yericho to the protective circle of a marriage, from thirteen hakafot of אֶחָד and אַהֲבָה to the intimacy of Shemini Atzeret, we discover that Sukkot is teaching us which walls must come down, which walls must remain—and how to gather the scattered pieces of ourselves and bring them back to the heart. 

 Why did the greatest sages of Israel dance through the night over a pitcher of ordinary water? Why were there fifteen steps in the Beit HaMikdash, fifteen Shir HaMa’alot, and five days between Yom Kippur—the tenth of Tishrei—and Sukkot on the fifteenth? And why does the Mishnah make the astonishing claim that someone who never witnessed Simḥat Beit HaSho’evah “never saw joy in his life”? 

This holiday Breakfast & Class became much more personal than I expected. We
journey from the waters that cried at Creation, to David HaMelekh and the
fifteen Songs of Ascent, from a childhood memory of hearing my neighbor hammer together his sukkah immediately after Yom Kippur, to a Holocaust survivor riding endlessly on a Madison Avenue bus—and finally to my own experience of returning from Israel this year while my wife, children and grandchildren remained behind. Somewhere along those fifteen steps lies a remarkable Sukkot lesson: simḥah is not the absence of difficulty or loneliness. Simḥah is what happens when what appears separated discovers that it was connected all along. And perhaps the greatest discovery of all is realizing that we are never truly alone.  

 Step Into the Cloud 

What
exactly are we entering when we walk into the sukkah? The Torah tells us to
remember the Ananei HaKavod,
the Clouds of Glory—but why commemorate the clouds rather than the manna that
fed us or the miraculous water that sustained us? Perhaps because the manna
said, “HaShem feeds us,” and the well said, “HaShem sustains us,” but the cloud
said something entirely different: HaShem is here. And according to
the Vilna Gaon, Sukkot does not merely celebrate the cloud that protected us in
the desert. After the sin of the Golden Calf, the clouds disappeared—and after
Yom Kippur, they came back. Yom Kippur tells us, “We are forgiven.” Sukkot tells
us something even more intimate: HaShem still wants us close. 

In
this Erev Sukkot Breakfast & a Class, we explore the remarkable secret of
the sukkah: Sukkah
equals 91—the combined numerical value of Havayah and Adnut, and the numerical
value of Amen.
The Ben Ish Ḥai describes the sukkah as an Or Makif,
a Divine light that surrounds us. We don’t merely perform this mitzvah; we walk
completely inside it. And perhaps that changes the way we understand the
Ushpizin as well. Avraham, Yitzḥak, Yaakov, Moshe, Aharon, Yosef and David
aren’t simply coming to visit our sukkah. We have
stepped into the cloud, into the shade of the Shekhinah—and they are coming there too.
For seven days, HaShem invites us to bring our families, our meals, our
laughter, our worries and our lives beneath His cloud and simply experience: HaShem is here.  

 Everyone in the
tavern thought Yankel was the town fool. Night after night, they offered him a
choice: a twenty-dollar bill, a ten, a five, or one shiny silver dollar. And
every night, to their enormous amusement, Yankel chose the silver dollar. Until
one day the bartender pulled him aside and begged him to take the twenty.
Yankel smiled. “If I take the twenty once, the game is over. As long as I take
the dollar, they keep coming back.” Perhaps Yankel understood something that we
desperately need to remember as we enter Yom Kippur: sometimes the little thing
we collect every day is worth far more than the big thing we grab once. 

Every
Yom Kippur we are tempted to make enormous promises—to change everything, fix
everything, become someone completely different. But HaShem asks us to open an
opening ke-hudah shel mahat—as
small as the eye of a needle—and He promises to open the rest. Maybe this year
we don’t need the twenty-dollar kabbalah that disappears a week later. Maybe we
need one silver dollar: one small, specific change we can repeat tomorrow, and
the next day, and the day after that. Because a tiny commitment kept every day
doesn’t remain tiny. By next Yom Kippur, we may discover that the smallest
kabbalah was the one that changed us most.  

 Can a judgment that has already been made be reconsidered? Rosh Hashanah has passed. The books have been opened. Yom Kippur is approaching. And perhaps we wonder: if the judgment has already been written, what can another prayer, another tear, another act of teshuvah possibly accomplish? An extraordinary story in the Zohar, set in the ancient Galilean village of Peki’in, gives us a remarkable answer. A little boy stands before HaShem with nothing but Torah, tears, and a prayer — and somehow, the case is opened again. 

This week, Chantelle and I found ourselves climbing the narrow mountain roads into Peki’in, walking through a place where the world of our Ḥakhamim suddenly felt
very close. There I was reminded of the story of Rabbi Yossi of Peki’in and the
child who refused to accept that the story was over. It may be one of the most
powerful lessons we can carry into Yom Kippur: as long as there can be another
tefillah, another tear, another act of teshuvah, there can be new evidence. And
perhaps the question is not simply whether HaShem will give us another year —
but what unfinished purpose we can place before Him as the reason we are asking for it.

 

 We spent Rosh
Hashanah in Givot Eden, and what was supposed to be a short two-day trip
through northern Israel somehow became a journey filled with enough stories for
weeks. Most of that was because of my wife Chantelle, who has a wonderful habit
of making me stop when I am ready to keep driving. One of those stops brought
us to the extraordinary Tunisian synagogue in Akko, a building covered from
floor to ceiling with millions of tiny mosaic stones. And because Chantelle
insisted that we stay, we found ourselves listening to an Israeli Air Force
officer speaking to a group of young men and women about Yom Kippur—and
teaching a lesson I needed to hear myself. 

We
can fast for twenty-five hours. We can beat our chests, cry through Kol Nidrei,
confess every sin and remain in synagogue until the final HaShem Hu HaElokim.
But the Mishnah teaches that there is one door Yom Kippur cannot open for us: עֲבֵירוֹת שֶׁבֵּין אָדָם לַחֲבֵירוֹ—the
hurts that remain between one person and another. Before we ask HaShem to
forgive us, there may be a phone call we need to make, an apology we need to
offer—or perhaps an old resentment we finally need to put down. In this
morning’s Breakfast & a Class,
The
Door Yom Kippur Cannot Open, we discuss
forgiveness, reconciliation, and what those millions of stones in an Akko
synagogue can teach us about repairing the mosaic before Yom Kippur.  

 When the Excuses Run Out 

We all have explanations for why we are the way we are. It was our parents. It was
the home we grew up in. It was our environment, our circumstances, our personality, perhaps even our DNA. And sometimes those explanations are
absolutely true. But somewhere between understanding where we came from and
deciding where we are going, explanation can quietly become excuse. In this
morning’s Breakfast and a Class, as we prepare for Rosh Hashanah through the
opening words of Ha’azinu, we meet one of the most unlikely heroes of teshuvah
in the entire Talmud: Rabbi Elazar ben Dordaya. 

He first turns to the mountains, then Heaven and Earth, then the sun and moon, and
finally the stars, begging each of them to help him. Until suddenly there is
nowhere else to turn and no one else to blame. And then he speaks five words
that change his eternity: אֵין הַדָּבָר תָּלוּי אֶלָּא בִּי — “The matter depends on
no one other than me.” Perhaps that is where teshuvah really begins—not when we deny our past, our wounds, or the forces that shaped us, but when we realize that none of them gets to write our future. Join us for “When the Excuses Run Out.”  

 Ask almost any Jewish child what we eat on Rosh Hashanah and the answer comes immediately: apples and honey. It is one of the most beloved and recognizable customs of the year. But not every Jewish community followed that tradition. In Baghdad, in Aleppo, in Damsacas and throughout the near east, following the custom recorded by the Ben Ish Chai, the apple was cooked in sugar rather than dipped in honey. In our own family, we never used honey at the Rosh Hashanah table; even after coming to America, our great-grandparents continued the tradition of using sugar instead. 

Why would anyone avoid honey on the very night when we are asking Hashem for a
sweet year? The answer takes us from the ancient customs of Ashkenaz to the
Kabbalists of the Sephardic world, and reveals two remarkably different ways of
understanding honey, judgment, and sweetness. Along the way we discover why bee honey may actually be the perfect symbol of transforming din into rachamim,
why the Ben Ish Chai preferred white sugar, and why the apple itself—with its
taste, appearance, and fragrance—carries a much deeper Rosh Hashanah message
than we might ever have imagined. Two customs, two approaches, and ultimately
one prayer: שנה טובה ומתוקה — a truly good and sweet year.  

 As we approach
Rosh Hashanah, we naturally begin thinking about what needs fixing. The
mistakes we need to correct. The habits we need to break. The parts of
ourselves that still need work. But what if that is only half the story? What
if Torah was not given merely to make us less bad, but to help us
discover how much greater we are capable of becoming? 

In
this morning’s Breakfast & Class,
we explore a remarkable teaching of Rabbi Frand built around the words לֹא בַשָּׁמַיִם הִוא — “It is not in
Heaven.” Why did HaShem
create us unfinished? Why does the Torah hide an allusion to milah
inside the words “Who will ascend for us to Heaven?” And if the angels have no
yetzer hara, why did they
want the Torah? The answers lead to a beautiful message for these final days of
Elul: HaShem
gave us wheat and asks us to make bread. He did not create us finished—He
created us with the extraordinary ability to become.  

 Open the Gates — The Secret of the
Psalm of Parnassah 

Why
did לְדָוִד
מִזְמוֹר, לַה׳ הָאָרֶץ וּמְלוֹאָהּ become one of our
great prayers for parnassah?
We say it every Sunday as we begin a new week. In Moroccan communities it is
recited as Shabbat departs and we return to the working world. And on Rosh
Hashanah, in the Syrian community, people will bid extraordinary sums for the
privilege of opening the Heikhal as we recite this Psalm and pray for financial
blessing for the coming year. But there is something strange: the Psalm never actually asks for money. 

In
this morning’s Breakfast & Class,
Open
the Gates — The Secret of the Psalm of Parnassah,
we discover that perhaps this is precisely the point. David HaMelekh begins by
reminding us Who owns everything, asks whether our
hands are clean enough to receive His blessing, and finally calls upon the
gates to open. But when those gates open, it isn’t money that comes through: וְיָבֹא מֶלֶךְ הַכָּבוֹד — “Let the
King of Glory enter.” Perhaps the
greatest secret of parnassah
is not simply asking HaShem to send us more, but inviting Him into the way we
earn, spend, give—and live.  

When the Rebel Says Amen

Can the Yetzer Hara Become the Yetzer Tov?

Every morning, we wrap the tefillin shel-yad around our arm and then place the tefillin shel-rosh upon our head. We have done it thousands of times. But what if hidden inside that simple order is an entire philosophy of how we are supposed to fight—and ultimately transform—the yetzer hara?

In this morning’s Breakfast & Class, based on a beautiful teaching of Rabbi Pinḥas Friedman, we discover the Ḥatam Sofer’s remarkable image: before we can crown the King, we first have to bind the rebel. But Judaism asks us to go even further. The ultimate goal is not simply to defeat the yetzer hara, but to harness its fire and teach it to serve HaShem—until, like the “bad angel” who accompanies us home on Friday night, even the rebel learns to say Amen.

When You Can’t See the Runway

What
happens when we find ourselves flying through the clouds — unable to
see what lies ahead, frightened by the turbulence, and unsure whether we
are even heading in the right direction? A remarkable story told by
Rabbi Shlomo Landau about two young men trapped in a small airplane with
an unconscious pilot gives us a powerful way to understand one of the
great challenges of life: learning to listen to the Voice that knows
exactly where we are and exactly where we need to go.

The
Torah never promises that there won’t be a war. It never promises that
there won’t be clouds. And it never promises that we won’t be
frightened. But as we enter Elul and read כִּי תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה,
perhaps we are being reminded that even when we cannot see the runway,
Hashem can. Our task is to keep fighting, keep moving forward — and
above all, keep listening. 

Inthis morning’s Breakfast & Class,
we confront one of the Torah’s most difficult questions: Why does Amalek never go away?
Why does the Torah command us not simply to remember what Amalek did, but לֹא תִּשְׁכָּח — never to forget?
And why, after thousands of years, does the hatred represented by Amalek
continue to reappear in different countries, different generations, and under
entirely different disguises? 

Drawing on the insights of Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l, and Rabbi
Adin Steinsaltz z”l, we explore three
remarkable approaches to Amalek: the danger of misplaced compassion, the
difference between hatred that has a reason and hatred that has none, and the
deeper idea that Amalek’s battle is ultimately not only against the Jewish
people, but against what the Jewish people represent. And as antisemitism once
again finds a comfortable home on opposite ends of the political spectrum, the
Torah’s ancient command feels frighteningly contemporary: זָכוֹר — Remember.
Not so that we live with hatred, but so that we recognize it, confront it, and
never allow it to change who we are. 

This morning’s Breakfast & Class begins with a few simple words from Parashat Ki Tavo: וְהָיָה אִם־שָׁמוֹעַ תִּשְׁמַע בְּקוֹל ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ — “If we will surely listen to the voice of HaShem.” Before the Torah promises all of its extraordinary blessings, it gives us a strategy for everything that follows: begin with emunah. There is a God. He is our God. There is no other. And perhaps every time we answer one small word — אָמֵן — we are practicing that faith all over again.

From a remarkable story about Rav Yeḥezkel Levenstein and the difference between seeing and hearing,
to the mesorah we receive from our parents and grandparents, to simply making the effort to come to synagogue on a stormy morning, we explore what it means to walk toward HaShem even when we cannot see everything
clearly. And ultimately we arrive at the sound we are preparing to hear on Rosh Hashanah: לִשְׁמֹעַ קוֹל שׁוֹפָר. We cannot see what the Shofar accomplishes. We hear — and we believe. The Sound of Emunah: the faith that allows us to hear.

This morning’s Breakfast & Class on Parashat Ki Tetze began with a curious question: Why does the Torah introduce two different sections, almost back-to-back, with virtually the identical words — “Ki tetze la-milchamah al oyevekha”,
“When you go out to war against your enemies”? And why does the mysterious
episode of Eglah Arufah, the unidentified murdered traveler, stand between them? 

We discovered that the Torah may actually be describing two wars and one great responsibility: the war against the enemy outside us, the far more personal war against the enemy within us, and the obligation never to forget the person struggling behind us. And that brings us to the final words of the parashah — Zakhor et asher asah lekha Amalek. Amalek specifically attacks the tired, the weak and those left at the rear of the camp. As Elul begins, perhaps one of the most important questions we can ask is not only, “What do I need to change?”
but also, “Who have we left behind?”   

What can one small mitzvah possibly accomplish? We say Tehillim for a refuah, give tzedakah in someone’s zechut, dedicate Torah learning to someone who is ill—and yet the question remains: how can something so small affect something so large? This class begins with the Zera Shimshon on Shiluach HaKen, who teaches that the problem may be in the question itself. What looks small to us may carry enormous weight in Shamayim.

From the mother bird of Parashat Ki Tetzei, we move to the metzora, Rachel Imeinu, Mashiach, the hidden storehouse of neshamos, and the mystery of how mitzvot create zechut. The central message is simple and powerful: never measure a mitzvah by how small it looks from here. We see the bird; HaShem sees the worlds it moves. May this Torah be a zechut for לְכָל חוֹלֵי עַמּוֹ יִשְׂרָאֵל. 

 The Sin Was the Strategy 

This morning’s Breakfast & Class begins with a troubling question in Parashat Ki
Tetze. Why does the Torah judge Ammon and Moav so harshly? Their crime was not simply that they failed to offer bread and water, nor even that they hired
Bilaam. Rabbi Yissocher Frand, drawing on the Dubno Maggid, the Kli Yakar and
the Tolner Rebbe, points us toward something deeper: they strategized.
They studied our vulnerabilities, created the circumstances in which we might
fall, and deliberately planned a spiritual trap. 

But in Elul, that frightening idea can become an extraordinarily hopeful one. If so
much evil can come from planning how someone might fall, imagine the power of sitting down and planning how we might rise. Together with an insight from
Rabbi Yehonasan Gefen, and the remarkable Talmudic story of Rav Amram Ḥasida shouting “Fire!” before temptation could overcome him, we ask a very practical Elul question: Instead of simply promising ourselves that this year will be
different, what can we actually change in the architecture of our lives to make it easier to become the people we want to be?  

 This Sunday
morning’s Breakfast & Class
begins with the opening words of Parashat Ki Tetzeh: “Ki tetze la-milḥamah al oyevecha”
— when we go out to war against our enemies. The Zohar and the Or HaḤaim reveal
that the Torah may also be describing a much more personal battle: the war
against the yetzer hara, and the beautiful captive as our own neshamah. 

Elul
is not only about discovering what is wrong with us. It is about rescuing what
is still beautiful within us. In this morning’s class, we follow the verses
step by step and discover how Ki Tetzeh becomes a map for Elul — going out to
battle, taking back what was captured, and finally bringing the neshamah home.  

 There is something strange about human nature. The first time someone does something for us, we notice it. The second time, we appreciate it. But when someone takes care of us day after day, somehow the extraordinary becomes ordinary. In this morning’s Breakfast & a Class, based on insight of Rabbi Frand, we look at a remarkable Gemara in Ketubot and Rav Pam’s powerful insight into three seemingly insignificant favors — a hand offered on a bridge, a feather brushed away, and a little unpleasantness quietly covered over. The great Amoraim teach us that hakarat hatov begins long before we say “thank you.” It begins with learning to notice. 

From there, we bring the lesson home — quite literally. What happens when the
kindnesses of a husband or wife become so constant that we begin treating them as part of the job description? Through the unforgettable words of Rabbi Akiva about his wife — “Sheli ve-shelakhem, shelah hu,” “What is mine and what is
yours is hers” — and a very personal reflection on my own gratitude to Chantelle, we ask what Elul might look like if, alongside examining what we need to change, we also learned to see again everything — and everyone — HaShem has already given us.  

 You Don’t Need to Know How the Book Ends — A Birthday, Rosh
Hodesh Elul & Parashat Shoftim 

Yesterday
was my secular birthday. Today is my Hebrew birthday. And tonight is Rosh
Hodesh Elul. In this morning’s Breakfast & a Class,
we used that unusual convergence to ask a question that becomes more meaningful
with every passing year: What are we supposed to do with the time HaShem gives
us? We remembered my dear friend David Golden, who passed away last year the
day after his 110th birthday, and the remarkable way he continued to appreciate
every additional day of life. Hazal teach that there is something special about
the day of one’s birth—but perhaps the real question is not what blessing can I
receive today, but what am I supposed to do with another year that HaShem has
given me? 

From
there, this morning’s Breakfast & a Class
turned to an extraordinary cassette tape I received when I was eighteen—an
astrological reading of my future that I refused to listen to until decades
later, when Rabbi Abittan, z”l, suggested we hear it together. Its astonishing
accuracy led to an unforgettable lesson from the Rabbi and directly into this
week’s Parashat Shoftim: תָּמִים תִּהְיֶה עִם ה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ — walk wholeheartedly with
HaShem. Elul asks us to
look honestly at yesterday, but the Torah warns us not to become obsessed with
knowing tomorrow. We don’t need to know how the book ends. We need the wisdom
to learn from the pages already written, the faith to leave the unopened pages
with HaShem, and the strength to make today’s page worth reading.  

 “I know the rule—but my situation is different.” It may be one of the most dangerous sentences we tell ourselves. In this morning’s Breakfast & a Class, we
begin with Shlomo HaMelech, the wisest of all men, who believed he could
multiply wives without allowing them to turn his heart. From there we meet
Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha, who was certain he could read by candlelight on
Shabbat without adjusting the flame, and even Ulysses, who understood that the
only way to resist the Sirens was to tie himself to the mast before he heard
their song. 

We then turn to the Torah’s remarkable warning that שֹׁחַד — a bribe — “blinds the eyes of the wise.” Through a powerful Gemara and a memorable story attributed to Rav Chaim Soloveitchik, we discover something uncomfortable about ourselves: bias rarely feels like bias. We usually feel perfectly objective. Perhaps that is the deeper lesson of the Torah’s boundaries and the safeguards of our Ḥakhamim. They are not there because we are foolish or weak. They are there because the Torah understands the human heart better than we understand ourselves. Sometimes the beginning of wisdom is simply admitting: the rules apply to me too.   

Elul: A Refuge in Time — What Are We Doing With the Time
Hashem Has Given Us? 

What is one hour of our life really worth? Parashat Shoftim brings us back to the Ir Miklat,
the city of refuge—a place designed not simply for exile, but for reflection,
rehabilitation, and ultimately return. Rabbi Yissocher Frand points to a
remarkable allusion from the Arizal: the words אִנָּה לְיָדוֹ וְשַׂמְתִּי לְךָ
form the initials אֱלוּל. An Ir Miklat is
a refuge in space; Elul is a refuge in time.
It is Hashem’s gift of a place in the calendar to stop and ask ourselves what
we are doing with the precious life He has given us. 

This week we enter Rosh Hodesh Elul, and next Sunday we Sepharadim begin
Selihot—giving up an extra hour of sleep each morning to wake up in more ways
than one. Through the unforgettable story of Rabbi Ḥanina ben Teradyon, Moshe
Rabbeinu’s forty days, and the Rambam’s call of עוּרוּ יְשֵׁנִים מִשְּׁנַתְכֶם — “Wake
up, sleepers, from your sleep,” we explore the extraordinary value of a single hour. Perhaps the challenge of Selihot is not merely to give Hashem that extra hour, but to allow that hour to change the other twenty-three.  

 This morning at Breakfast & a Class,
we explored one of the most remarkable verses in the Torah: “בָּנִים אַתֶּם לַה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם” — “You
are children of HaShem your G-d.” Why does the
Torah introduce this extraordinary declaration specifically before the laws of
mourning? Drawing upon the insights of Rashi, Sforno, the Or HaChaim, Rabbeinu
Baḥya, and the Nesivot Shalom, we discovered that this verse is not merely
teaching us how to mourn—it is teaching us how to live. Even in moments of
loss, disappointment, failure, and uncertainty, we are never abandoned, never
orphaned, and never beyond the embrace of our Heavenly Father. 

Along
the way, we explored what it truly means to be “children of the
King”—maintaining our dignity in times of pain, recognizing that our worth
comes from HaShem and not from our circumstances, and remembering that no Jew
ever loses the privilege of returning home through teshuvah. This timeless
message from Parashat Re’eh reminds us that our greatest identity is not found
in our successes or failures, but in the enduring relationship expressed in
those two unforgettable words: בָּנִים אַתֶּם.  

 This morning at
Breakfast and a Class, we explored one of the most familiar verses in the
Torah: “Man does not live by bread alone.”
But what does that really mean? After all, HaShem did sustain the Jewish people
in the desert with the manna—a miraculous form of bread. The lesson is not that
we do not need physical sustenance. We do. The lesson is that the bread is
never the true source. The food, the doctor, the paycheck, the customer and the
opportunity are all vessels through which HaShem sends His blessing. 

We
began with a lighthearted insight from my friend Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky
about the difference between what we need and what we want, and from there we
followed the manna into the desert, entered the cave with Rabbi Shimon bar Yoḥai,
and returned to our own breakfast table. The question is not whether we enjoy
the physical world. The question is whether we remember Who placed the blessing
within it. Listen to this morning’s class, “Not by Bread Alone: What We Need, What
We Want, and Who Sustains Us.”  

At this morning's Breakfast & a Class, we explored one of the most surprising openings in the Torah. As the Jewish people stood ready to enter Eretz Yisrael after forty years in the wilderness, Moshe Rabbeinu told them not to think they were inheriting the Land because of their righteousness. If not because they were perfect, then why did Hashem continue to believe in them? More importantly, what does that teach us about the way Hashem looks at each of us?

Using memorable stories—from a humorous fortieth wedding anniversary, to a struggling violin student, to Sir Edmund Hillary's climb of Mount Everest—we discovered that the DNA of the Jewish soul is not perfection, but growth. We concluded with two timeless teachings: the Kotzker Rebbe's insight that more light allows us to see more dust, and Rabbi Asher Abittan זצ'ל's unforgettable lesson: 'Where you are on the ladder is far less important than the direction in which you are climbing.' If Hashem has never given up on the Jewish people through thousands of years of triumphs and failures, then none of us should ever give up on ourselves. We hope you'll join us for this inspiring class.

This morning at Breakfast & a Class,
we explored one of the Torah’s most challenging mitzvot—not simply
giving tzedakah, but learning how to give with an open heart. Beginning
with the powerful verses in Parashat Re’eh, we examined the Torah’s remarkable order: first, “Do not harden your heart,” and only afterward, “Do not close your hand.” Through the teachings of Chazal and the wisdom of Rabbi Asher Abittan זצ״ל, we discovered that Judaism asks not only what we give, but who we are while we are giving.

The
class centers around a very personal experience that took place
immediately after a Sunday morning shiur, when a chance encounter
outside the synagogue became the continuation of the lesson itself.
Together we explore what Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, the Brisker Rav, and
the Gemara in Bava Batra
teach us about restoring dignity, offering encouragement, and
recognizing the image of HaShem in every person we meet. Sometimes the
greatest act of kindness is not opening our wallet—it is opening our
heart. 

Why does the Torah tell us to thank HaShem not for the food,
but for the Land? In this week’s Breakfast & a Class, inspired by last nights discussion with Rav Yosef Zvi Rimon, we explore one of the most
overlooked questions in Parashat Ekev.
The Torah commands us, “וְאָכַלְתָּ וְשָׂבָעְתָּ… וּבֵרַכְתָּ… עַל
הָאָרֶץ הַטּוֹבָה”—“You shall eat, be satisfied, and bless HaShem… for the good Land.” Why isn’t the blessing simply for the meal? What is the connection between a piece of bread on our table and the Land of Israel? 

Together we discover that Birkat HaMazon is far more than a blessing after eating. It is the Torah’s daily safeguard against the illusion of self-sufficiency. Hunger naturally turns us toward HaShem, but prosperity can quietly convince us that “my strength and the power of my hand” created our success. Every time we bench, we remind ourselves that behind our efforts stands the One Who gave us the strength to succeed, the Land that sustains us, and the covenant that has carried the Jewish people through every generation.  

 This mornings
Breakfast & a Class, explored one of the great paradoxes of the Torah. How
could the generation that stood at Har Sinai, heard the voice of HaShem, and
accepted the Torah with the words Na’aseh veNishma
descend only forty days later to the sin of the Golden Calf? More importantly,
what does that ancient failure teach us about our own struggles with
commitment, responsibility, and spiritual growth? Drawing upon the insights of
Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky, Rabbanit Dena Rock, and other Torah sources, we
discovered that the real issue may not have been idolatry alone, but the human
tendency to desire inspiration without obligation—a relationship with God that
comforts us but asks nothing of us. 

Yet
the Torah’s message does not end with failure. The very trait that led to the
Golden Calf—our stubbornness—is transformed by Moshe Rabbeinu into one of the
Jewish people’s greatest strengths. Through moving stories of Rabbi Eliezer
Silver, Rabbi Aryeh Levin, and Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, we explored how
determination, when directed toward Heaven, becomes perseverance, loyalty, and
hope. The question is not whether we are stubborn; we all are. The question is:
What
are we stubborn for? May this
discussion inspire all of us to use our strength not to resist HaShem, but to
hold fast to Him, to one another, and to the belief that, as long as the candle
is still burning, it is never too late to repair.  

 Most people know
that Tu B’Av is considered the Jewish “holiday of love.” Fewer know that the
Mishnah calls it one of the happiest days of the entire year—even placing it
alongside Yom Kippur. Why? What could possibly make this almost-forgotten day
so extraordinary? 

In
this class, we set aside the familiar historical events of Tu B’Av and focus
instead on one seemingly insignificant detail: the daughters of Jerusalem
borrowed white dresses from one another before going out to the vineyards. Why
did the Mishnah preserve that image? What does a borrowed dress teach us about
dignity, generosity, marriage, community, and ultimately the rebuilding of the
Beit HaMikdash? 

More
than a lesson about shidduchim, this is a lesson about becoming people who
create connections. In a world where we often remain safely within our own
“dalet amot”—our personal space—Tu B’Av challenges us to step beyond ourselves,
to invite others in, and to replace the divisions of Tisha B’Av with acts of
ahavat chinam. Sometimes rebuilding the Jewish people doesn’t begin with grand
gestures. Sometimes it begins with one borrowed dress, one open heart, and one
courageous step toward another person.  

 This past Shabbat
we entered Shabbat Naḥamu, the Shabbat of
Comfort, and with it began the seven weeks that lead us from the ashes of
Tishah Be’Av toward the hope of Rosh HaShanah. Then, on Tuesday night and
Wednesday, we celebrate Tu Be’Av, the fifteenth
day of the Hebrew month of Av, a day that our Sages describe as one of the
happiest days of the Jewish year. How can the Jewish calendar move so quickly
from the deepest national mourning to one of its greatest celebrations? What
changed in just a few days? In this
morning’s class we explore a profound answer. Tu Be’Av is not a departure from
Tishah Be’Av—it is its completion. The destruction of the Beit HaMikdash was
not only our tragedy; it was, so to speak, HaShem’s. When our mourning matures
from grieving what we lost to
recognizing the pain caused to Avinu ShebaShamayim, consolation
can begin. Drawing upon the Gemara, Midrash, and the timeless teachings passed
down by my rabbis, we discover why Tu Be’Av stands alongside Yom Kippur as a
day of joy, how true teshuvah is rooted in empathy for HaShem, and why the
first steps toward rebuilding the Beit HaMikdash begin not with stones, but
with repaired relationships—with HaShem and with one another. 

 This morning , we explore one of the Torah’s greatest
paradoxes. The generation that ate the manna never worried about planting,
harvesting, or earning a livelihood. Every morning, their sustenance descended
directly from Heaven. Yet the Torah repeatedly calls the manna a test. How can
a daily miracle be considered a test? Drawing on the teachings of Rabbi
Yissocher Frand, the Sforno, and the Lubavitcher Rebbe, we discover that the
greatest spiritual challenges are not always found in hardship. Sometimes they
are hidden inside our greatest blessings. 

Through the remarkable stories of Hillel and Rabbi Elazar
ben Ḥarsom, together with the timeless lessons of Parashat Eikev, we will see
that both poverty and prosperity demand emunah. An empty basket teaches us to
trust HaShem for tomorrow, while a full basket challenges us never to forget
the true Source of our success. The circumstances of the test may change, but
our mission remains the same: to recognize every blessing as a gift from HaShem
and to use it to build a life of Torah, mitzvot, gratitude, and purpose.  

 Parashat VaEtḥanan – The Whisper Before the Shout 

Why does HaShem sometimes whisper before He shouts? Drawing upon the profound teachings of Rav Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler, the revered teacher of Rabbi Asher Abittan, this week’s podcast explores one of Judaism’s most difficult
questions: not why suffering exists, but how we are meant to respond when life is disrupted. Through the words of Moshe Rabbeinu in Parashat VaEtḥanan, we discover the remarkable promise of “u’vikashtem misham”—that
even “from there,” from places of pain, confusion, and exile, we can still seek
and find HaShem. 

As we journey from Tish’a Be’Av toward Shabbat Naḥamu, Rav Dessler reminds us that Judaism does not ask us to explain every wound. Instead, it invites us to
listen for HaShem’s gentle whisper before life forces us to hear the shout.
This episode is a thoughtful reflection on suffering, teshuvah, hope, and the
quiet courage to keep searching for HaShem—even when we do not yet understand the road before us.

 

Parashat Va’Etḥanan is filled with warnings against idolatry, even though few of us feel tempted to bow before a statue. Rabbi Frand explains that the ancient idol may have disappeared, but another form of worship remains very much alive: “I-dolatry.”
When our need for control, honor, and recognition becomes so strong that we
cannot tolerate frustration or disagreement, the ego quietly takes the place
that belongs to HaShem.

In this morning's class, we explore the Gemara’s comparison between anger and avodah zarah, the deeper meaning of performing a mitzvah because it was commanded, and the Ḥasidic distinction between unhealthy self-erasure and genuine humility. The goal is not to disappear, but to place our talents, needs, and personalities in the service of something higher—and to remember, especially when life refuses to follow our plans, that there is a G-d, and it is not us.

 When the Answer Is “No” 

The Zohar on Torah, Prayer, and the Journey from Tish’a
BeAv to Naḥamu 

As we emerge from Tish’a BeAv and begin the journey
toward Shabbat Naḥamu, the Zohar offers a surprising perspective on one of the
Torah’s most heartbreaking moments. Moshe Rabbeinu stands at the border of
Eretz Yisrael after forty years of faithful leadership, yet his heartfelt plea
to enter the Land is denied. Rather than focusing on Moshe’s prayer alone, the
Zohar leads us through a remarkable exploration of the Tree of Life, the soul’s
nightly return to its Creator, and the true nature of prayer offered with
humility. 

Drawing upon the teachings of the Zohar, Rabbi Akiva’s
timeless parable of the fish and the water, King David’s midnight awakening to
Torah, and King Ḥizkiyahu’s prayer in the face of an impossible decree, we
discover that Judaism does not promise a life without disappointment. Instead,
it teaches us how to remain connected to HaShem when the answer is “not yet”—or
even “no.” This class explores how Torah becomes our Tree of Life, how every
morning is a renewed gift of the soul, and how sincere prayers are never lost,
but ascend before the King as crowns. It is a message of faith, resilience, and
hope—a fitting bridge from the mourning of Tish’a BeAv to the comfort of
Shabbat Naḥamu  

Although this class was delivered on the night of Tish’ah BeAb, its message extends far beyond the fast day. It is a timeless exploration of exile, faith, the hidden presence of the Shekhinah, and the enduring hope that what has been broken can once again be made whole.   

 From Ayekka to Eichah: The Hidden Journey from Revelation to
Redemption 

What is the connection between the very first question HaShem asked Adam in Gan Eden—“Ayekka, Where are you?”—and the opening cry of Megillat Eichah? Why did Moshe Rabbenu, Yeshayahu HaNavi, and Yirmiyahu HaNavi all use the same haunting word, “Eichah”?
And what is the deeper meaning behind the Kabbalistic teaching of the “fallen
lower heh” and the concealed Shekhinah? 

In this Tish’ah BeAb lecture, delivered at the Edmond J. Safra Synagogue in
Manhattan, we explore the first chapter of Megillat Eichah through the lens of
Midrash, Zohar, and Kabbalah. Along the way, we discover how the words Ayekka, Anochi, and Eichah trace the spiritual journey of the Jewish people—from Gan Eden to Har Sinai, from the destruction of Yerushalayim to the hope of redemption. The class concludes with a beautiful insight into the unique Syrian custom of beginning the night of Tish’ah BeAb with Parashat Ha’azinu, revealing how our liturgy itself carries the message that even in the depths of exile, the
covenant endures and redemption is already waiting to emerge.