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Rabbi's Corner


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Last week’s Parsha describes Moshe’s birth. Curiously, it recounts the entire story without a single mention of his parents by name. Moshe’s father is “a man of the house of Levi” and his mother is introduced as the “daughter of Levi”, and subsequently referred to as “the woman” or “the child’s mother”. The Torah goes to great pains to avoid any description of the parents other than the fact that they hailed from Levi.

Yet, in this week’s Parsha, the Torah spells out Moshe’s full genealogical lineage, and we are for the first time acquainted with Amram and Yocheved. The shines a spotlight on a glaring enigma – why does the Torah initially shroud Moshe’s pedigree in secrecy? Especially as he was born to greatness – both his parents were unparalleled Tzaddikim, and Amram, the spiritual leader of his generation, is reckoned as one of the four Tzaddikim who never sinned.

The Rebbe explains that the Jews of Egypt existed in such a demoralised and dehumanised state that they could not comprehend anything beyond surviving another day. If so, who could be their saviour? It would have to be someone who could even comprehend that there was something bigger out there. For the one thing harder than liberating a nation subjugated for centuries was to believe that it was actually possible. Who would be that person?

That is why the Torah does not reveal the names of Moshe’s parents at his birth, for all their personal spiritual achievements were inadequate when it came to producing the saviour of the Jews. The only credentials that mattered were that he was “a man of the house of Levi” and she was a “daughter of Levi”.

The first quality Moshe needed was to be associated with the tribe of Levi, the one tribe that was never physically enslaved, and he secured this lineage through his father. This allowed him to be unshackled by the traumas of the physical slavery.

However, this was still not enough, because the Jews were doubly enslaved by Egypt. Not only were they enslaved physically, but psychologically as well, for they had become conditioned to the Egyptian “system”. The Jews believed that their survival depended on the whims of their taskmasters, which was in turn subject to the ebb and flow of the economy, the cornerstone of which was agriculture and food production. All of this ultimately depended on the Nile, which overflowed and irrigated Egypt like clockwork. The whole process was entrenched and predictable, to the point that it appeared unshakable. There was no room for anything out of the ordinary, let alone a supernatural event.

That is why Moshe needed to be the child of the “daughter of Levi”. Yocheved was the only Levite woman alive who was born prior to the arrival of the Jews in Egypt. She represented the link to the land of Israel, where rain was unpredictable and the entire economy was variable and volatile. From such a perspective, the impossible would seem far more achievable. Such origins are what allowed Moshe to rise above the Egyptian mentality.

It is our task, too, to rise above the dual-edged slavery of Golus – both the physical and psychological shackles. Although we are not literally the children of “a man of the house of Levi” and a “daughter of Levi”, we can be conceptually. This is achieved by connecting with the study of Chassidus, our link with a reality which transcends the straits and strictures of Golus. Chassidus enables us to see the unimaginable, and to thereby press forward and achieve the Geulah.  

Wishing you a good Shabbos!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Last week’s Parsha describes Moshe’s birth. Curiously, it recounts the entire story without a single mention of his parents by name. Moshe’s father is “a man of the house of Levi” and his mother is introduced as the “daughter of Levi”, and subsequently referred to as “the woman” or “the child’s mother”. The Torah goes to great pains to avoid any description of the parents other than the fact that they hailed from Levi.

Yet, in this week’s Parsha, the Torah spells out Moshe’s full genealogical lineage, and we are for the first time acquainted with Amram and Yocheved. The shines a spotlight on a glaring enigma – why does the Torah initially shroud Moshe’s pedigree in secrecy? Especially as he was born to greatness – both his parents were unparalleled Tzaddikim, and Amram, the spiritual leader of his generation, is reckoned as one of the four Tzaddikim who never sinned.

The Rebbe explains that the Jews of Egypt existed in such a demoralised and dehumanised state that they could not comprehend anything beyond surviving another day. If so, who could be their saviour? It would have to be someone who could even comprehend that there was something bigger out there. For the one thing harder than liberating a nation subjugated for centuries was to believe that it was actually possible. Who would be that person?

That is why the Torah does not reveal the names of Moshe’s parents at his birth, for all their personal spiritual achievements were inadequate when it came to producing the saviour of the Jews. The only credentials that mattered were that he was “a man of the house of Levi” and she was a “daughter of Levi”.

The first quality Moshe needed was to be associated with the tribe of Levi, the one tribe that was never physically enslaved, and he secured this lineage through his father. This allowed him to be unshackled by the traumas of the physical slavery.

However, this was still not enough, because the Jews were doubly enslaved by Egypt. Not only were they enslaved physically, but psychologically as well, for they had become conditioned to the Egyptian “system”. The Jews believed that their survival depended on the whims of their taskmasters, which was in turn subject to the ebb and flow of the economy, the cornerstone of which was agriculture and food production. All of this ultimately depended on the Nile, which overflowed and irrigated Egypt like clockwork. The whole process was entrenched and predictable, to the point that it appeared unshakable. There was no room for anything out of the ordinary, let alone a supernatural event.

That is why Moshe needed to be the child of the “daughter of Levi”. Yocheved was the only Levite woman alive who was born prior to the arrival of the Jews in Egypt. She represented the link to the land of Israel, where rain was unpredictable and the entire economy was variable and volatile. From such a perspective, the impossible would seem far more achievable. Such origins are what allowed Moshe to rise above the Egyptian mentality.

It is our task, too, to rise above the dual-edged slavery of Golus – both the physical and psychological shackles. Although we are not literally the children of “a man of the house of Levi” and a “daughter of Levi”, we can be conceptually. This is achieved by connecting with the study of Chassidus, our link with a reality which transcends the straits and strictures of Golus. Chassidus enables us to see the unimaginable, and to thereby press forward and achieve the Geulah.  

Wishing you a good Shabbos!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


For seven consecutive days, Moshe resisted… Hashem! He refused to become the saviour of the Jews, for so many reasons. One of Moshe’s greatest reservations was of a practical nature – he possessed a handicap. He had a physical stutter, and in addition to his speech impediment, he did not speak Egyptian well, as he had been banished from that country for many decades. Needless to say, he was neither a master of rhetoric nor a persuasive negotiator. Moshe had all of this in mind when he protested, “I am not a man of words, neither from yesterday nor from the day before yesterday, nor from the time You have spoken to Your servant, for I am heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue.”

Now, generally speaking, there are two ways of addressing a speech inhibition. If the inability is borne of a lack of confidence, the appropriate solution would be the reassurance that “practice makes perfect”. Alternatively, if the inability stems from an inherent challenge, the solution would invariably involve therapy. 

Astonishingly, Hashem does neither of the above. He concedes that Moshe had an intrinsic handicap but, seemingly, does not offer any apparent solution. Rather, Hashem responded, “Who gave man a mouth, or who makes dumb or deaf or seeing or blind? Is it not I, Hashem?” Moshe already knew all that; how did Hashem’s response address Moshe’s misgivings?

The Alter Rebbe explains that Moshe’s stutter was symptomatic of a much deeper matter. Moshe hailed from a different world entirely – the realm of Tohu – to the point that he could not tolerate our physical world. He could not “communicate” with it conceptually, and this manifested itself literally as well, in his physical inability to communicate. Uniquely, Moshe’s exalted stature did not make him feel proud and arrogant, but rather, he felt humbled that everyone but him seemed perfectly capable of aligning their (more limited) spiritual subsistence with their physical existence. That is why Moshe implored Hashem “Shlach na Byad Tishlach – send Your message with whomever You would send.” Choose someone else, anyone else, but not me.

Hashem conceded, “Yes, you have a handicap, and I am not going to change that.” But Hashem’s message was that every person has gaps in their lives, and ultimately, He is the one who empowers each person to bridge those gaps. A handicap is merely a greater gap than usual; the result of a greater-than-usual dichotomy between a person’s greater-than-usual spiritual source and physical life. The same Hashem who, by virtue of transcending both the spiritual and the physical, and thus being unconstrained by them, empowers every person to bridge the disparities in their lives – He is the same Hashem who vests even greater power in someone with a handicap to do so as well. Which is exactly why Hashem did not want anyone but Moshe for the role, because his handicap was emblematic of his potent spiritual fortitude which was destined to shine through.

The message is a most powerful one: What you may regard as a handicap might in fact be a great asset, one that might even frame one’s entire destiny. We see this in Moshe, who assumed that his roots in the world of Tohu made him the most ill-suited for the task; so intimidated was he that he argued with Hashem for seven full days. In fact, his handicap turned out to be his biggest asset. In our lives, too, we may think of ourselves, or others, as possessing a “handicap” – whether physical, emotional or spiritual. All too often, this unique quality turns out to be one’s greatest asset.

Wishing you a good Shabbos!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


One of the most perverse and decadent events ever recounted in Tanach is known as “Pilegesh B’Givah” (the concubine at Givah). In brief, the Jews waged war against the tribe of Binyamin as retribution for their horrifying moral lapses. The tribe of Binyamin stubbornly refused to surrender and were almost entirely decimated. Only several hundred men remained, and no women or children. In the aftermath of the deadly battle, the other tribes swore not to give their daughters in marriage to the remaining members of Binyamin. However, when realising that this would cause the tribe to be completely eradicated, the Jews relented and allowed the tribe of Binyamin to “grab” wives for themselves. This way, they would not be willingly giving over their daughters in marriage to the remaining members of Binyamin, but would still allow for their continuity.

Yaakov referred to this event when he blessed his son Binyamin to be “like a wolf who grabs”. This came to fruition at Givah when his descendants “grabbed” wives for themselves. The obvious question: Why would Yaakov choose to highlight such an event when blessing Binyamin? The whole tragedy sounds more like a curse than a blessing!

The key to understanding Yaakov’s blessing lies in the fact that the word “grabbing” refers to taking something beyond what one deserves. Of course, Yaakov was not wishing that the carnage should happen in the first place. Even so, he blessed Binyamin that when it did happen, his tribe should rebound. That even as they sank to the lowest spiritual state and became mired in extreme debauchery, his descendants should have the ability to “grab” and return to the path of holiness. And that is exactly what happened. Despite being almost wiped out both physically and spiritually, Binyamin rebounded, achieving a destiny that would have seemed impossible to anyone living at that time. Against all odds, Binyamin blazed a path forward, ultimately producing such greats as King Shaul, Mordechai and Esther, and earning the right to hosting part of the Beis Hamikdash in their territory.

There is a lesson in this for all of us. At times, we stand back and hesitate to achieve something we think ourselves unworthy of. Sometimes we may simply be deluding ourselves. However, even when we are not, it is still not a reason to desist. The Brocho of Yaakov grants us the power to “grab” and achieve even what should be beyond our reach.

Wishing you a good Shabbos!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


At the beginning of this week’s Parsha, Yehudah takes an unconventional stand against the viceroy of Egypt. The fate of all the brothers lay in the hands of the Egyptian viceroy, and the prospects seemed hopeless. If they were pragmatists, they should have just thrown up their hands in despair and given up. If they were idealists, it would have seemingly befitted the brothers to approach the situation with caution, diplomacy and aplomb. Instead, Yehudah launches into a bruising tirade against the viceroy of Egypt, threatening drastic action if his words go unheeded. His insolent attack must have seemed, in the moment, as counterintuitive, self-defeating and perhaps suicidal.
And for what? To protect their little brother – who was a convicted thief. Yes, in hindsight we know that Binyamin had been framed. But let us remember that, in the moment, the brothers did not know that. According to the Midrash, the brothers fell for the ruse and thought that Binyamin had stolen the goblet, to the point that they even whipped him on account of his alleged actions. Yet, Yehudah stuck out his neck for the convicted thief, even offering up his own self in his stead. Imagine that – Yehudah willing to give up his freedom so that a convicted thief could avoid jail time. Why?
At the face of it, the answer is because Yehudah had guaranteed to his father that he would bring Binyamin back, safe and sound. However, this explanation does not seem to account for Yehudah’s self-sacrifice, because what eventuated was not part of the bargain. He had promised to protect Binyomin from the innate dangers and travails of travel, and not from the consequences of alleged criminal behaviour. If so, why did Yehudah do it?
The Rebbe explains that, indeed, Yehudah did it because of the guarantee. The Hebrew word for guarantor, arev, is the same word for both ‘mixture’ and ‘sweetness’. When Yehudah guaranteed the safety of Binyamin, he did so by inseparably fusing himself as one with Binyamin (‘mixture’) which inevitably led to endless care (‘sweetness’) and devotion for his younger brother. Thus, there was no way he could detach himself from Binyamin’s plight, however much he may have deserved it, because it was as if it was all happening to Yehudah’s own self.
“Kol Yisroel Arevin Zeh Lazeh”; all Jews serve as guarantors for each other. This guarantee is not merely transactional, but rather, it inseparably fuses us with one another (‘mixture’), inevitably leading to boundless care (‘sweetness’) and devotion to each other. Thus, there is no way we could detach ourselves from anyone else’s plight, because it is as if it is all happening to our own selves.

Wishing you a good Shabbos!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Many tried to interpret Pharaoh’s dream – all the necromancers of Egypt and all its sages, but none did so to Pharaoh’s satisfaction. This gives rise to a series of obvious problems: Why was Pharaoh won over by Yosef’s interpretation, especially as it would take so many years for events to bear it out? Furthermore, it was surely presumptuous of Yosef to offer a solution to the famine problem when he wasn’t asked for anything but the dream’s interpretation. If anything, Pharaoh should have suspected that Yosef was seeking to capitalise on the opportunity to escape jail and become the viceroy of Egypt!

The Rebbe explains that Pharaoh’s key dilemma was understanding one particularly vexing part of the dream – “and they (the ugly and lean cows) stood beside the (handsome and robust) cows on the Nile bank”. Pharaoh was flummoxed! If each set of cows stood for such diametrically opposite things – whatever those things were – to the point that the lean cows ended up gobbling up the robust cows, then what is the meaning of their ostensible coexistence?

This enigma is what steered away Egypt’s sages and necromancers from interpreting the Nile part of the dream intuitively, as referring to years of plenty and famine, even though this would well explain why the dream unfolded along the Nile river, the mainstay of Egypt’s agriculture, for they could not understand how years of plenty and famine could coexist. That is why they presented other interpretations involving phenomena that could occur concurrently – such as seven daughters born and seven who will die, or seven kingdoms vanquished and seven which will be lost – even though such interpretations didn’t account for the Nile aspect at all.

Yosef differed. He persisted in explaining the Nile aspect intuitively, as referring to the years of plenty and famine, because he had a ready answer for the coexistence enigma. Yosef told Pharaoh – the good times and the bad times? The dream is telling you an important message about the opportunity to harness the good times in order to get you through the bad times! If you sit back and do nothing during the good years, then indeed, the years of plenty and famine cannot coexist. However, the dream is telling you to do the opposite – be proactive, invest wisely, save up fastidiously during the years of plenty – and that will prepare you for the years of famine that will follow. If you use the good times to fuel you through the bad times, it emerges that they do, in fact, coexist!

Pharaoh was impressed. Yosef’s interpretation accounted for every detail of the dream. And Yosef’s solution to the famine problem was not merely his own volunteered addendum, but an integral and vital part of the dream’s interpretation.

The dream of Pharaoh was an important part of the process that led the Jewish nation into exile, and it thus contains an important message about Golus in general: If we look at our Golus journey in a disjointed and haphazard way, we may perceive lots of bad pockets that seem utterly irredeemable and pointless, and completely disparate from the good times. However, when we regard our Golus journey as one cohesive tapestry, we begin to appreciate how good times and bad times coexist – by harnessing all the positives and plusses to mitigate and eliminate the negatives and minuses.

Wishing you a good Shabbos & a Freilachen Chanukah!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Nowhere in Tanach is anyone described as “successful” – other than Yosef in this week’s Parsha. Not once, but three times. Two of those descriptions are very similar, yet the Rebbe observes what he regards as a “glaring discrepancy” between them.

In the first such instance, the Torah states: “Whatever Yosef did, Hashem made it successful in his hand.” However, in the other instance, the Torah states: “Whatever Yosef did, Hashem made it successful” – and there is no mention of Yosef’s hand. Although this inconsistency may seem trivial to us, the Rebbe explains that it actually contains the key to understanding the secret of success.

What is true success? It is a result which transcends one’s inherent capabilities and capacities. It is essentially a gift which emanates from Above. The only way to tap into such boundless success and allow it to flow undisturbed is to … get out of the way. In Chassidic thought, this is how Bittul (self-effacement) allows one to become a conduit for the greatest Brochos, far beyond what one could achieve on his own.

Yosef’s formative years were shaped by three general stages. Initially, he lived a relatively sheltered and prosperous life at home with his father and family. During that entire time, we do not find any Hatzlacha attributed to Yosef. Quite to the contrary – his brothers hated him, sought to kill him, and eventually sold him. Talk about lucking out.

Then Yosef was sold as a slave. His humble circumstances heightened Yosef’s sense of Bittul, for it so palpably demonstrated how little control he had over his destiny. This newfound Bittul was the conduit for the blessing of success from above, but it was still someone limited, and the success is therefore described as flowing through the constraints of Yosef’s human “hands”. That is why, at this juncture of his life, the Torah states: “Whatever Yosef did, Hashem made it successful in his hand.”

The vulnerability Yosef felt as a slave was no doubt completely eclipsed by his sense of expendability as a prisoner. A slave can at least take pride in the benefit he brings to his master’s affluence, whereas a prisoner is literally society’s outcast. Yosef thereby achieved an even deeper sense of Bittul, which in turn generated an even greater blessing of success from above, one that was endless and boundless. That is why, at this juncture of his life, the Torah states: “Whatever Yosef did, Hashem made it successful” – and there is no mention of the constraints of Yosef’s “hands”.

One practical message concerns the power of Bittul. This concept is all too often misunderstood as the stifling of a person’s ability and potential – “Just be a nothing”. Nothing could be further from the truth. The purpose of Bittul is not to dispense with one’s identity and ability, but rather, to dispense with all the hangups and complexes that get in the way of allowing one’s true identity, ability and success – the power of the Neshama – from shining.

Wishing you a good Shabbos & a Freilachen Chanukah!

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Terrorists. The first rule of engagement is – don’t attract their attention. But if they do somehow appear on the horizon, the second rule of engagement is pretty elementary – don’t negotiate. Negotiating with a terrorist legitimises him, his goals and his means. It incentivises, and by extension further incites, future violence. Rather, project greater force and firepower than your opponent.

If so, how can we explain Yaakov’s conduct towards Esav? Yaakov went out of his way to inform Esav, all the way out in distant outlying Seir, that he was returning to the land of Israel. Once Esav marches towards Yaakov at the head of a force of four-hundred, Yaakov meekly submits himself before Esav – sending him gifts, calling him “my master”, and bowing before him seven times. Why?

Then comes the biggest surprise of all – the terrorist Esav disarms and kisses his brother! How does that come about?

A fascinating explanation can be gleaned from the Rebbe’s father, who focusses on how many times the Gematriya of Hashem’s name – 26 – can be found in the names of our protagonists. Yitzchak equals 208, which is 8 times 26. Yaakov equals 182, which is 7 times 26. Where did Yitzchak’s eighth level to? It went to Esav, 376, which is seven times the word Tomei (50), plus 26.

What does this all mean? Yitzchak’s eight levels of G-dliness incorporated seven levels that paralleled the seven levels of creation, and could thus be easily revealed within it. There was also an eighth level that transcended it. Yaakov attained the seven levels of G-dliness vested within creation, which is why he so intuitively revealed G-dliness in our physical world. On the other hand, Esav received the transcendent eighth level, which was too elusive for him to reveal in a physical world, and it became shrouded in seven layers of impurity instead.

When Yaakov looked at his brother, he didn’t see a terrorist. He saw a person who, despite his deep flaws and great impurity, held the key to a plateau that Yaakov could only wish for. So he sent forth to reconcile with his brother. He tried his best to bridge the gaping chasm that separated them. He humbled himself before his brother and called him “my master” because – that was the truth. He bowed down seven times to strip away Esav’s seven levels of impurity. Esav beheld this and internalised what Yaakov was seeking to achieve, and… he reciprocated, despite the greatest of odds.

There are many lessons herein, but let us focus on one: Never confuse a flawed person with a terrorist. Even when someone seems destructive and disparaging, ask yourself whether that is perhaps fuelled by positive energy, of an elusive kind that is not being channelled correctly. If it is the former, take the approach of Yaakov. Humble yourself, reach out and bridge the gaping chasm of separation. More likely than not, your efforts will be reciprocated, and you will be all the greater for having done so.

Wishing you a good Shabbos & Good Yom Tov, לשנה טובה בלימוד החסידות ובדרכי החסידות

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


“Hashem saw Leah was hated, so he opened her womb.” Hashem made her fruitful in order to endear her to Yaakov. But how could it possibly be that Yaakov the Tzaddik would hate his own wife, Leah? And if he did hate her, why did he remain married to her?

Explanations abound. However, Chassidus explains that Leah and Rochel represented two vastly different worlds. Leah was emblematic of the higher and hidden aspect of the creation (alma d’iskasya) whereas Rochel embodied the lower and revealed aspect of creation (alma d’isgalya). Yaakov grasped what Rochel represented, he appreciated her, and therefore completely connected with her. On the other hand, Leah embodied something so beyond Yaakov’s grasp that he did not see a way to connect with her. He couldn’t come to terms with that and felt challenged by her presence, similar to the frustration experienced when something precious is just out of reach. The hate the Torah refers to here is along the lines of the famous quote, “People fear what they don't understand and hate what they can’t conquer.”

So, Hashem acted to endear Leah to Yaakov. He opened her womb, and she bore his children. Hashem demonstrated to Yaakov that his own fulfillment and destiny would come through Leah more than any of his other wives; indeed, the majority of the Jewish nation descends from Yaakov’s union with Leah.

One lesson for us is that life is not just about connecting with people of your own wavelength, people whose presence you enjoy, people whom you naturally understand and gravitate towards. Rather, it is also about building bridges of mutual understanding with those whom you don’t easily see eye-to-eye. When one achieves that, he opens himself up to newer and higher dimensions, “giving birth” to deeper powers.

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Out of all our forefathers, our knowledge of Yitzchok’s life is the most limited, even though he lived the longest. The Torah devotes three Parshiyos to Avrohom, and another six to Yaakov – and their biography is further amplified by the Midrash. Our Parsha is the only one which focusses on Yitzchok, and his standout achievement seems to be his strident insistence on digging wells, even in the face of fierce Philistinian adversity. What’s up with the wells?

One explanation can be gleaned from contemplating the challenges of the second generation. As hard as it is to be a pioneer, the struggle of the second generation can be more acute, and the stakes can be much higher: The pioneering generation grapples with challenges that are external, whereas the second generation grapples with challenges that are internal.

Kaddish Luz, Speaker of the Israeli Knesset, was an avid proponent of the Kibbutz lifestyle, who sent his book on the subject to the Rebbe. The Rebbe responded with a lengthy letter where he politely, artfully, but quite forcefully, offered a critique of the Kibbutz movement. The very last criticism goes to the heart of the current discussion, and here are the Rebbe’s words:

Another point, which I think important, is the difference in feeling and regard toward the commune on the part of its founders versus on the part of those born into it. The founders of the commune, or those who joined it in its early stages, can derive a deep satisfaction from the fact that they have come to this (as you describe in your book) from a very different way of life and from a society with very different views, and have achieved this communal life through great toil, sacrifice and suffering – all of which serve to make one’s achievements that much more precious and admirable in one’s eyes. On the other hand, those born into the commune or raised in it regard it as a most natural way of life; to them the limitations of communal life, such as discussed above, tend to be more pronounced than its positive aspects. This cannot fail to awaken in them a dissatisfaction, or even rebelliousness; it is inevitable that there will be dissent between them and those who enforce the communal regimen on them. Regarding them, it is even more important to emphasize the communal life as a stage and facilitator towards a higher goal.

Which brings me to the crux of the matter, to the burning question which, incidentally, I did not see addressed in your book: What goal or ideal is presented to the next generation as the objective to be achieved via the structure of a communal life, so that they should desire to achieve it even if this requires effort, toil and sacrifice on their part?

The Rebbe’s words give us insight into Yitzchak’s crowning achievement. The wells he dug were not just any wells. He was digging his father’s wells. “And Yitzchak dug the wells of water which had been dug in the days of his father, Avraham, and which the Philistines had blocked up after Avraham's passing; and he gave them names like the names that his father had given them.”

When Avraham came on the scene, his pioneering ideas literally riveted (and polarised) the entire world, and he stood his ground against everything the world threw at him. But by the time Yitzchok was at the prime of his life, the novelty and initial appeal of Avraham’s message had faded away. Even the naysayers – those who had blocked up the wells – were all but a distant memory.

Carrying on his father’s work demonstrated Yitzchak’s extraordinary resilience and persistence, which can only come from digging deep into one’s own well and connecting with one’s own source. It is a message for all of us to remember – to treasure the “Keep-Goings” even more than we do the “Start-Ups”.

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Chayei Sara means the life of Sara. Yet, the Parsha seems to speak about everything other than the life of Sara. It contains three central episodes – the passing and burial of Sara, Yitzchak finding comfort in Rivka, and Avraham’s subsequent marriage to Keturah. If anything, these events underscore the supplanted role of Sara. How can all this be dubbed “the life of Sarah”?

In a riveting Sicha, the Rebbe explains that Avraham and Sara epitomised two opposite ideals. Avraham was a globalist whereas Sara was a nationalist:

Avraham was the “father of all nations” who constantly strove to bring every idolater into the tent and teach him about the one true G-d. Avraham had two / three wives and multiple children; some part of the Jewish fold, and others not. Avraham sought to maintain a relationship with Yishmael even when that disturbed Yitzchak’s pure environment. Avraham was clearly a globalist, who prioritised the rest of the world as much as he prioritised his own.

On the other extreme is Sara, whose name means “princess over all” – regal, yet aloof and distant. She had only one husband and only one son, both of whom are the cornerstone of the Jewish nation. Her entire focus was begetting and raising Yitzchak, to the point of banishing anything in the way – including her stepson Yishmael. Sara was clearly a nationalist, who prioritised her people above all else.

Which is why this Parsha is called “the life of Sara”, because all three episodes exemplify Sara’s nationalism. First, her passing led to the very first Jewish purchase of the Holy Land. Despite Efron’s willingness to cede Machpelah for free, Avraham insisted on paying top dollar for it, so that no one could deny Jewish control of the land. Second, when it was time to find a soulmate for his son, Avraham resisted Eliezer’s implorations for Yitzchak to wed his daughter, even though that would have made for a perfect multicultural union. Instead, Avraham sent Eliezer to find the one and only woman in the world who would carry on the legacy of Sara. And lastly, Avraham’s marriage to Keturah culminated in him sending his other children away in order to preserve the entirety of his spiritual and physical heritage exclusively for Yitzchak.

In our own lives, are we globalists or nationalists? When we sit around our Shabbos tables or catch up with our friends, are we “deciding” how the USA should deal with North Korea, what Israel should do about Iran, the criteria that truly make someone worthy of the US Supreme Court, who truly deserves to be President – or more importantly, who deserves the grand finals win? Or, to the contrary, do we set aside the “big” issues and focus on the “little” ones – the things that actually matter to us and the people in our immediate environment; the decisions that will actually lead to enduring, practical and positive results.

The Torah tells us about both Avraham and Sara because both approaches have their time and place. Still, although Avraham, too, passes away in this week’s Parsha, the name remains Chayei Sara, and not Chayei Avraham.

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


In describing how Avraham publicised the name of Hashem, the Possuk (21:33) says Vayikra, that he – Avraham – called out in the name of Hashem, G-d of the world.” The Gemoro comments that the word should also be vowelised as Vayakree, which means that Avraham made others call out in the name of Hashem. This leads to an obvious question – by saying that Avraham made others call out in the name of Hashem, it goes without saying that did so himself. If so, why did the Torah need to focus at all on the fact that he called out in the name of Hashem (Vayikra), when it would have been sufficient to state simply that he made others call out in the name of Hashem (Vayakree)?

Chassidus explains that the Torah focuses on both in order to convey a series of messages about the interplay between Vayikra and Vayakree, which are inextricably bound together in no less than three ways:

The first message is that one’s Vayikra cannot endure without the Vayakree. In other words, the only way to guarantee that I will continuously call out in the name of Hashem is by igniting the same passion in others. One who inspires his surroundings (Vayakree) will remain inspired within (Vayikra). However, one who focuses just on his or her own self will eventually feel bereft of inspiration.

The second message is that the outcome of my Vayakree is incomplete until it leads to the recipient’s own Vayikra. In other words, the purpose of outreach is not merely to influence others to “copy the leader” and repeat what they are told to say (Vayakree). Rather, the people we reach should become saturated to the point that they no longer need our leadership to tell them what to do. They should instead become independent leaders in their own right, who can call out and publicise Hashem’s name on their own accord (Vayikra).

The third message is that the Torah pledges that my Vayakree will lead to the other person’s Vayikra. In other words, we sometimes find ourselves in a situation where the opportunity to influence another Jew is very limited, such as during a very brief encounter. We often wonder about the point of encouraging another Jew to perform one quick Mitzvah at our behest, when his deed seems so devoid of his own sincere commitment (Vayakree). However, the Torah assures us that one thing will lead to another, and the people we so fleetingly impact will eventually serve Hashem out of their own personal conviction (Vayikra).

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Trials and Tribulations. It’s a major theme of this week’s Parsha, because Avraham experienced ten of them. The exact list is the subject of debate, but the Rambam catalogues them as follows: Having to leave his homeland, famine, Pharaoh kidnapping his wife, war with the four kings, despairing of children, circumcision at the age of 99, Avimelech kidnapping his wife, the banishment of his concubine Hagar, the banishment of his Yishmael, and Akeidas Yitzchok.

So much angst and travail! For what purpose? If the objective was merely to test Avraham, surely Hashem already knew the full extent of Avraham’s loyalty. If so, why did Hashem put Avraham and his family through so much?

The Abarbanel explains that the answer can be found in the literal meaning of the Hebrew word for trials and tribulations – Nisayon. This word is etymologically related to the words “Nes”, which refers to anything that is raised or elevated. For example, a flagpole upon which a banner is hoisted is also known as a “Nes”. Which is why a miracle is referred to as “Nes”, for it is an elevated and elevating event. Thus, the actual Hebrew word Nisayon captures the purpose of trials and tribulations – to elevate and raise up. For, when a Jew withstands the challenges, he becomes a banner of inspiration and pride for others, especially to all who know him and appreciate the extent of his triumph.

However, it goes a step further. When a Jew withstands challenges, he becomes a banner of inspiration for his own self. Before the hardship and difficulties, he may have not realised what he was capable of. The ordeals serve as the catalyst for him to muster up reserves of strength and fortitude that he did not even realise he possessed.

Which brings us to another translation of Nisayon – capability borne of experience. Throughout one’s journey of life, the challenges are what allow one to achieve maximum potential.

Chassidus explains that this is why Hashem challenged Avraham – not to prove Avraham’s capabilities to Hashem, but to prove Avraham’s capabilities to his own self. Thus, it is little wonder that the ten challenges are headlined with the title “Lech Lecha”. Chassidus interprets this as: “Go to yourself.” And, indeed, this Parsha describes Avraham’s journey to the essence of his being, to the very root of his soul.

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


The flood did not only happen 4,125 years ago. It is happening today. To each and every one of us. We are constantly treading water in a torrential flood of phone calls, emails, text messages, Whatsapps, Zoom sessions and social media posts. There are bills to pay, work commitments to keep, relationships to maintain and social obligations to honour. The never-ending commitments surge around us like the ocean waves, and they threaten to drown any remaining spark of spirituality.

So, Hashem tells us, “Come into the Teivah.” In order to rise above the pressures of the world rather than sink in it, we need to get into the Teivah. As the Baal Shem Tov explains, Teivah also means “word”. At the start of the day, we need to completely surround ourselves with the words of Tefillah and ignore the raging worries outside. In doing so, “The Teivah was uplifted over the water.” When a person takes the time and energy to daven properly despite the distractions, he is uplifted to the highest levels.

Yet, the purpose of the Teivah is not to remain there. Eventually comes the command, “Leave the Teivah.” The point is to emerge from davening fortified and with the inspiration to influence the outside world once more.

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Hashem brought all the animals and birds before Odom so that he could name them. What about the fish? The Torah does not clearly say, one way or another, whether they were also named by Odom. Tosfos (Chullin 66) equivocates over the matter, and other authorities debate this issue. In one explanation, the Rebbe suggests that this dispute hinges upon the purpose of a name:

On a simple level, a name exists entirely for the sake of mankind. In other words, a name serves as a way for man to refer to the people and animals he interacts with. If this is the entire objective, then Odom did not need to name the fish, as man does not interact with creatures of the ocean to the same degree that he interacts with his peers and animals on dry land.

On a deeper level, the purpose of a name is to serve as a conduit through which the dormant energies of a person or an animal can flow to a revealed state. This is the Chassidic interpretation of “Krias Shem” (name-calling), which can be translated as the “name calls forth”; i.e. the name calls forth the spiritual energy latent in the person or animal. If this is the purpose of a name, then Odom must have named the fish as well, for their potential also needs to be revealed.

One key difference between the two approaches is whether names exist for our own sake, or for the sake of the other. Perhaps we can derive from this a practical message about how we view our many transactional interactions with those around us, e.g. the bank teller, the gardener, the plumber and mechanic, the broker, the housecleaner etc. On the surface, it is intuitive for us to regard such interactions in a limited sense, with the significance we attribute to that person directly pegged to the significance of what he or she can do for us. With such an attitude, one is attentive to the other person only as much as necessary for the transaction, without otherwise caring about them as a whole, nor caring about their purpose.

However, there is a deeper way of looking at our interactions with others. Perhaps they exist not for our own sake, but for the sake of the other. Regardless of what led to the interaction in the first place, it can be harnessed as an opportunity to call forth the spiritual energy latent in the other person. This becomes possible when one focuses on the other person as a whole, and cares deeply about them and their purpose.

Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Although a Sukkah can be minimally built with three walls, there is a widespread Minhag, brought in Shulchan Oruch, to have four complete walls. What is the reason for this custom?

One answer may be gleaned from a seemingly puzzling Midrash which states: When Iyov was afflicted with suffering, he sought to escape the world and ascend to Hashem. “Oh that I knew where I might find Him; I would come to the place prepared for Him.” Hashem responded by showing Iyov a Sukkah of three walls.

What does this Midrash mean? The commentaries relate this Midrash to a passage in Bava Basra which describes the world, allegorically, as being bounded on only three sides. The north side was left open as an entry point for the negative forces, consistent with the verse “evil will come forth from the north.” Hashem did so to challenge us with the task of erecting that fourth wall, and thereby forever block out the evil that seeks to pervade the world from that direction. Our efforts result in a “four-walled” existence; the Messianic utopia we all so earnestly await.

This was Hashem’s answer to Iyov. By pointing to the Sukkah, Hashem was saying that the world is not a finished piece of work. Just like the minimal Sukkah, with one side left open through which the elements enter, Hashem deliberately left the world unbounded on one side to allow for the possibility of evil, pain and suffering; the source of Iyov’s tribulations.

The temporary Sukkah is a model for our transient world. The purpose of its missing side is for us to take the initiative to complete it. Perhaps that is how the Minhag arouse for us to strive and complete that fourth Sukkah wall. When we achieve the same for the world, Moshiach will come, and usher in the Messianic Age, which is Kabbalistically epitomised by the final-Mem, the one letter with four complete walls. May it happen speedily today.

Wishing you a good Shabbos Gut Yom Tov and Freilichen Sukkos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas ha'azinu

Three times in total, the Torah refers to this week’s Parsha as “Hashirah Hazos – this song.” The incongruency is glaring: How is Haazinu a song? Most of this “song” focusses on our sins, our wayward conduct, and the divine retribution that results. The only uplifting parts appear at the very beginning, which glorifies Hashem’s justice (הצור תמים פעלו), and at the very end, which culminates in the salvation of the Jews and the coming of Moshiach (וכפר אדמתו עמו).
The Ramban answers that although the theme gives us nothing to sing about, Haazinu is still arranged in movements and its words written in prose. Since it appears in the form of a song, it is accurate to describe it as such. However, the Rebbe searches for a deeper answer, because Haazinu still seems to lack the most vital ingredient of song – joy and exultation. As the famous quote goes, “Ein Odom Shor Shira Ela Mitoch Simcha – One does not sing a song but through joy” (Rashi Erchin 11a).
The Rebbe explains that it all comes down to one’s perception. One who perceives Haazinu as many separate and disparate Pesukim will indeed be forced to conclude that it is not very songlike. After all, event after event accentuates our sins and divine retribution, and there is precious little that is favourable. However, if one approaches Haazinu as one long cohesive read, a flow which exhibits how everything that happens is part of one chain of events, then he will rejoice and sing at every step of the way. For then he realises how every negative event emanates from the opening line of the song, Hashem’s glorious justice, and additionally, is an important stepping-stone in approaching the culmination of the song, the salvation of the Jews and the coming of Moshiach. When looked at in that light, then indeed, all of Haazinu reads like a song. It celebrates the entire process of our national destiny, and demonstrates how every single stage is integral and worthwhile.
This is a powerful message to remember when we face challenge and difficulty. If we view such an event in isolation, it can be crushing and demoralising. However, when we remember that everything that happens flows forth from Hashem’s justice, and is a vital step leading to the coming of Moshiach, we will sing and rejoice in the greatness of Hashem.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and גמר וחתימה טובה - May you be sealed for a good and sweet new year,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

rosh hashanah

One of the high points of Rosh Hashanah is the Haftorah of the first day of Rosh Hashanah. It contains the moving biblical narrative of Chana, who suffered the agony of barrenness, and humiliation at the hands of those who did not empathise with her. Chana poured her heart in silent prayer before Hashem with such passion that even Eli the High Priest did not recognise her supplication for what it was. In due course, Chana gave birth to a son and named him Shmuel. She paid homage to Hashem, “For this child did I pray, and Hashem granted my request which I asked of Him.”

The story does not end there. For the next few years, Chana would not travel to the Mishkan – with all of its implications. She gave up the opportunity to behold the splendour and majesty of the Shechina. She sacrificed the opportunity to perform considerable Jewish outreach. For, as the Midrash teaches, Elkanah and Chana always took a different route each time they travelled to the Mishkan and back, in order to meet as many new people on the way as they could and reinvigorate their connection to Hashem and the Torah.

She gave it all up, for one reason – her son, Shmuel. She knew that our most important objective is to raise the next generation to a lifetime of Torah and Mitzvos. And she understood that this greatest obligation of ours starts right in our home. Chana did not hire a nurse or a babysitter, nor did she subject her son to the rigours of travel which would have invariably led to an even slight level of neglect. With laser-sharp focus on her son, she put her child front and centre.

This Rosh Hashanah, the focal point of Rosh Hashanah is clearly the home. Let us use the opportunity to give our next generation a Rosh Hashanah like no other.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and a כתיבה וחתימה טובה לשנה טובה ומתוקה,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas NItzovim vayelech

Have you ever dreamed of being king or queen? Well, here is an easy solution. Go find the closest anthill and proclaim your sovereignty over the millions of teeming ants. You won’t have to worry about quashing revolts, nor will you have to worry much about your subject’s needs. It will be all gain without the pain. Oh, the royal bliss! And, if those subjects of yours ever do stir up your imperial anger, you can be rid of them without much ado.

Of course this is ridiculous. Well then, what does it mean that Hashem becomes our King on Rosh Hashana? He gave us our entire existence, and we are far more insignificant before Him than an ant is before us!

The answer is at the beginning of this week’s Parsha, which is always read right before Rosh Hashanah: “You are standing together today, all of you, before Hashem … to pass into a covenant of Hashem… that He forges with you today.” Hashem enters into a pact with us, pledging to raise us to the level of His infinity. Since He elevates us to His level, we can coronate Him as King on Rosh Hashana.

But there is a catch. The Possuk says: “All of you.” This means the entire nation – every single person. In other words, Hashem’s pact with us is effective only when we are all united. And not just any sort of unity. Rather, as the Alter Rebbe explains, every single Jew possesses a unique advantage over every other; a specific quality unique to him or her. Each individual is indispensable to the nation, much in the same way that every limb is vital to the human body. “Standing together” means to recognise our interdependence on every other Jew. In this way, we are no longer judged as individuals, but as one whole.

It is perfectly fine that we all have different opinions. Each of us has different ways of going about things. But the overarching consideration is to remain united. Not just in spite of our differences, but because of our differences. Then we are assured a Kesivah V’Chasima Tova.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and a כתיבה וחתימה טובה לשנה טובה ומתוקה,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas KI SAVO

There’s a phrase that’s been floating around my head lately. “Tichle Hashana uKlaloseha; May the year conclude along with its curses.” This expression appears in Megillah 31b to explain the timing of this week’s Parsha: “Ezra enacted that the Jews read the curses of the book of Devarim before Rosh Hashanah. What is the reason? In order that the year concludes together with its curses.”

This year, that statement really resonates.

But this begs the question – why do we need curses at all? Furthermore, we know that when Moshe Rabbenu recited them of his own volition, he delivered a sum total of 98 curses. Why that number specifically?

The Rebbe makes a surprising connection. The Gematriya of the word Selach is 98, just like the number of Moshe’s curses. What is the connection between curses and forgiveness? Well, to borrow a phrase from physics classes, “A body at rest tends to remain at rest in bed.” When all is smooth sailing, there is little motivation to make any quantum leaps. A challenge and a dare, and sometimes even hardship and difficulties, works wonders at achieving things that were not previously imagined.

This explains the connection between curses and forgiveness. They both reflect the same process – less than perfect beginnings become the entire catalyst for greater good. When that is achieved, the greatest blessings are revealed and the curses are erased. It is high time for all the year’s curses to subside so that we be left only with the great achievements they produced.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and a Ksiva Vchasima Tova,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas KI SEITZE

The Parsha opens with the dreaded drumbeat of war: “When you go out to battle over your enemies, Hashem will deliver them into your hands and you will take captive.” War and battle were an integral part of conquering and living in Eretz Yisroel, and most of us would reflexively assume that this Possuk speaks of our battles with the seven nations. Not so, says Rashi. This verse is referring not to the conquest of Eretz Yisroel, but to non-obligatory wars we choose to fight with other countries.

This seems at odds with the Chassidic interpretation of this Possuk. According to Chassidic thought, this Possuk alludes to the internal fight against the Yetzer Hara and the evil within us each time we daven. As the Zohar puts it, “The time of prayer is the time of battle.” Tefillah is when we overcome any distracting and inappropriate thoughts, and we harness the forces of holiness within us for to tackle and banish our evil impulses. This kind of war does not seem optional. How does this mesh with Rashi’s assertion that the Possuk speaks of a non-compulsory war?

The Rebbe explains that there is actually another way of addressing evil – through Torah study. Rather than battling evil directly, the Torah speaks from the vantage of holiness and purity. It places the learner on a different plateau – one from which wrongdoing and sin is now out of the question, without having even broached the subject directly.  

The Rebbe goes on to compare the two approaches: There is a lot of risk involved in the messy entanglement of direct war, and even the victor often loses something along the way. In contrast, taking the high road and illuminating the positive in every being often solves the problem far more effectively. There is much less risk involved, and both sides emerge the victors, with neither suffering any loss in the process. Thus, without diminishing the importance of Tefillah, it cannot be regarded as the mandated approach for overcoming all obstacles in all times and all for people, for a better result can often be achieved through Torah.

This message is one to remember when we educate our children, or when we try to channel the behaviours of our peers, or when we even try to sway our superiors. There are usually two approaches:

One is the way of war – To relentlessly shine a searing spotlight on the negative behaviour or problem, to castigate and berate the offender with all the righteous indignation one can muster, to directly name and shame until the problem is solved. Although this approach has its place, it is a high-risk strategy which may lead to the wrong results, and even when it doesn’t, something is generally lost in the process.

The other approach is the way of the peace – Instead of dealing directly with the negative behaviour or challenger, efforts are made to preserve the offender’s dignity and approach the solution in roundabout and empowering ways, such as by sharing stories that project the relevant morals, by engaging in long discussions about right and wrong in “hypothetical” situations, and by highlighting positive moments. There is far less risk for all involved, and both sides come out the victors, without anyone suffering the loss of their dignity in the process.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and a Ksiva Vchasima Tova,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas SHOFTIM

I have sent this message out in the past. Nevertheless, I send it out again because I find it so very apt for our times – Invariably, on any given day, I find myself on the receiving end of so many questions about the future. “Do you know when the lockdown will end?” “Do you know when the vaccine will be ready?” “What is the plan for Simchas Torah… and Chanukah for that matter?” Etc etc. The Rebbe explains how Parshas Shoftim help us attain a healthy approach to the future.


The future. Should we forecast it? Predict it? Divine it? Guess what it brings? Worry about it? Plan for it? Insure against it? Or just plain ignore it? This week’s Parsha seems to give conflicting advice:

On the one hand, the Torah warns us not to divine the future through sorcery or black magic. Rather, “You shall be Tomim with Hashem”. Rashi explains this to mean that one should not seek out astrologers or fortune tellers to predict the future, but must rather place his trust in Hashem and accept whatever He has in store for us. On the other hand, immediately afterwards, the Torah assures us that the prophets will reveal what lies ahead! If seeking out the future breaches our trust in Hashem, then why have prophets?

The Rebbe answers that the Torah does not negate the importance of planning for the future, nor does it encourage us to throw caution to the winds. We must always assess what lies ahead and plan for it, even engaging planners, consultants, advisors, forecasters – and prophets too, if available. However, when engaged in such efforts, the Torah expects that we recognise our corporeal limitations and probe the future only as much as reasonable. Beyond that, one should not obsess over what one cannot know, and should instead maintain a simple-minded and innocent trust in Hashem’s Providence.

This dual approach is seen in the word Tomim, a word with multiple meanings. Tomim can denote simplicity, with the basic meaning of this Possuk being that we should accept whatever Hashem has in store for us with simple-heartedness. The simplicity is twofold – we don’t overly strain to try and divine the future, nor do we allow the future to overly worry us.

But Tomim also means perfect or complete. Someone who exhibits an unhealthy obsession and worry for the future risks becoming broken and crippled by his own worries and fears. Such a person may not literally be consulting soothsayers, sorcerers, necromancers or astrologers – but he is doing so figuratively. Only by being “simple-minded”, by letting go and placing our trust in Hashem, will we lead wholesome and complete lives. The message for all of us is to look to and plan for the future within reason, but this should at the same time be tempered with a healthy dose of happiness and trust in Hashem, letting go of any worries and fears of the unknown.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and a Ksiva Vchasima Tova,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas RE'EH

The opening line of the Parsha is forthright: “See, I give before you today a Brocho u’Kloloh”. Onkelos translates Brocho u’Kloloh exactly as one would expect: “A blessing and a curse.” However, Yonasan ben Uziel translates it as “A blessing and its exchange.” Why doesn’t Yonasan ben Uziel just say it as it is? Moreover, how can a curse be regarded as an “exchange” for a blessing? It is the exact opposite!
Our sages say that no evil descends from heaven. Rather, there are two types of blessing. One type of good is the obvious kind. The other type of good manifests itself in a concealed way, to the extent that it appears before us distortedly, in the guise of a curse.
Onkelos lived in a generation of concealment, when the Beis Hamkidash was destroyed and the Jewish People were driven into exile. In his times, one saw the curses, literally. On the other hand, the Yonasan ben Uziel basked in presence of the Beis Hamikdash existed, at a time when scholarly luminaries and righteous people abounded, and Hashem’s presence was literally felt by all. So instead of referring to evil as a curse, the way most of us see it, Yonasan ben Uziel conveyed its true significance, the way it appeared from his vantage point.
Onkelos and Yonasan ben Uziel were both referring to the exact same phenomenon after all. Onkelos presented its external trappings, whereas Yonasan ben Uziel presented its Pnimiyus, its inner dimension. In similar fashion, may we merit to see the inner, blessed dimension of the unsettling events unfolding in the world around us, with the speedy coming of Moshiach.

Wishing you a good Shabbos and a Ksiva Vchasima Tova,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas EIKEV

This week’s Parsha informs us about the Mitzvah of Bentsching, and the Gemoro shares a story in that regard: As youngsters aged 6-9, Abaye and Rava were once sitting in the presence of Rabbah. Rabbah asked them, “Whom do we address the Bentsching to?” Immediately, they both proclaimed, “Hashem!” Rabbah persisted, “Tell me, dear children, where is Hashem?” The two children reacted differently. Rava pointed upwards to the rafters, whereas Abaye went outside and motioned to the heavens. Rabbah responded, “You will both be great Rabbis.” According to one version, Rabbah concluded, “But Abaye will be greater!”


There’s a lot that seems confusing about this story. Ask any 6-9-year-old child the same first question, and he will no doubt answer exactly the same. Then ask him the second question, and he will likely (seemingly) outdo both Abaye and Rava by breaking out into song and dance, as he points in all direction and sings “Hashem is here, Hashem is there, Hashem is truly everywhere!” Why did Abaye and Rava point only upward, and why was Abaye’s answer deemed greater than Rava?


One explanation focuses on the very different upbringings of Abaye and Rava. Rava was the scion of a prosperous, influential and distinguished family. His upbringing was within the safe and sheltered confines of the family home. Even so, he still recognised Hashem as the one who ultimately provided the “roof over his head” and the comfortable environs of his family home. So he pointed to the rafters. And indeed, for the rest of his life, we find that Rava remained strictly beneath the “rafters” – seeking to connect with Hashem through constant attendance in the tents of Torah, and steering clear of the disorderly world outside.


Abaye had a much tougher time. His father died as soon as he was conceived and his mother passed away shortly after birth. Without a father or mother, Abaye was raised by a foster-mother, and he lived in abject poverty his entire life. In a sense, he had no place he could truly call home. That is why Abaye walked outside and pointed to the heavens, for he recognised Hashem as his Protector in the rugged elements and the rough-and-tumble of life. And indeed, for the rest of his life, Abaye was never content with remaining solely within the tents of Torah, but he constantly strove to connect with Hashem in the big world outside, through worldly acts of Gemilus Chassadim.


Reb Levi Yitzchok Schneersohn, the Rebbe’s father, whose yarhtzeit is observed this coming week, presents a mystical explanation of this anecdote, which is perhaps just a deeper layer of the one shared above: Kabbalah subdivides the level of “makif” into “makif hakarov” (the near makif) and “makif harachok” (the distant makif). The former is a transcendental level of G‑dliness which still somewhat resonates with us, whereas the latter is so lofty that it remains completely outside our sphere of comprehension. That is why, when asked where our blessings emanate from, both Abaye and Rava pointed upwards, to signify the level of makif. But there was a difference. Rava pointed to the close makif, the rafters of the house that transcend merely its inhabitants. However, Abaye went outside and gestured towards the distant makif, the heavens that transcend our entire planet. Both meant to indicate that Hashem transcends our comprehension, but Rava was satisfied with an accessible point of reference, whereas Abaye pointed ever higher. Although Reb Levi Yitzchok does not go on to say it, perhaps that is why both Abaye and Rava’s physical upbringing reflected the level of makif they identified with.


We find ourselves in interesting times. Yeah, by now that’s a cliché, but its apt here. We tend to associate the home with safety and security, and the world outside with risk and uncertainty. But this week, as those of us in Melbourne entered another stage of lockdown, our extended stay at home is paradoxically symptomatic of the risk and uncertainty outside. We are physically at home, but figuratively roughing it up. Both Abaya and Rava teach us that wherever we are, whether we feel like we are indoors or outdoors – our Supporter is right above us at all times.


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas Voeschanan

We probably all feel the festive cheer whenever we hear Attah Hareisa. This Possuk heralds the Simchas Torah Hakafos, but it is sourced in this week’s Parsha. In context, when Moshe Rabbeinu recounts the Giving of the Torah to the Jews, he proclaims: “You have been shown, in order to know, that Hashem, He is G-d; there is nothing else besides Him.” Rashi explains: “When Hashem gave the Torah, he opened for them seven heavens. And just as he tore the upper ones, so he tore the lower ones, and they saw that He was the only one.”


Rashi’s phraseology is curious. In relation to Hashem’s revelation, he speaks of both “opening” and “ripping”. Why the difference? The Rebbe explains:


“Opening” implies the introduction of an additional dimension, an innovation or level that adds fullness to the whole picture – just like a physical opening, which is a constructive entry point through which to access what would otherwise be sealed off. On the other hand, “tearing” has overtones of destruction and implies an item’s very negation – just like ripping a garment, which negates its worth and value; indeed, its very usefulness.


These are the two approaches a Jew takes in confronting the world. More often than not, we strive to “open” our materialistic surroundings, revealing the spark of holiness, G-dliness and goodness that is imbued within it. However, at times the darkness is to such a degree that we fail to discover anything positive about it. The only way to address such obscurity is to “rip” through it; eliminating the darkness by completely negating its significance and substance, and thereby subduing it.


The same two models exist in a person’s own quest for self-improvement. More often than not, we strive to “open up” ourselves – our innate talents and abilities, intellect and emotions – cultivating them and then directing them to serve Hashem. However, at times we are faced with a challenge that requires more than our innate skillset and internal toolbox. The only way to overcome the darkness is to “rip” out of our natural zone and aim for a goal which transcends the fibre of our being.


One of the practical lessons is that we can’t expect that life will always be rosy. Sometimes there are challenges which seem overwhelming, often in association with our commitment to Yiddishkeit. At such times, it is important to remember that the challenges of the material word are merely a façade. This façade is ideally circumvented by “opening” it where possible, but by completely “tearing” through it when there is no other way. As we do our part, may Hashem reciprocate our efforts by “opening” and “ripping” away our Golus!


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas devorim

The entire Torah comes from Hashem. Every last word, and every last letter. To the point that one who believes that any of it – even one letter – originated with Moshe, is deemed a heretic (Sanhedrin 99a; Rambam Teshuvah 3:8). So pivotal is this belief that the Rambam enshrined it as one of the 13 principles of faith. If so, what are we to make of the Zohar’s statement that the last book of the Torah, the book of Devarim, is called “the repetition of the Torah” (Mishnah Torah) because Moshe said it of his own accord?


The Maharal clarifies that the purpose of the Torah is to forge a relationship between Hashem and man. It is like a gift which forges a bond between the giver and the recipient – but only when the gift resonates with both the giver and the recipient. Otherwise, the gift will be an event that is celebrated and cherished only by the one who found it meaningful. In similar fashion, the Torah must “resonate” with both Hashem and humans. In order to achieve this objective, the Torah must contain elements of both. Thus, the first four books represent Torah from the dimension of its Giver, Hashem, whereas the fifth book contains a more humanistic element, of Moshe, to represent Torah from the dimension of its recipients. Nevertheless, even that level is still unquestionably divinely inspired.


The Rebbe explains this further: Had there been only the first four books of the Torah, it would have been impossible for our finite intellect to unite completely with the otherworldly wisdom of Torah. This would have defeated the purpose of the Giving of the Torah – to allow it to permeate our minds and elevate our understanding. That is why the book of Devarim needed to pass through the prism of Moshe Rabbenu’s mind, in order that humans in general would have the ability to understand and relate to the previous four books of the Torah in similar fashion.


It is true to say that Devarim is still as much the Word of Hashem as every other part of the Torah, for Moshe did not state these words completely of his own accord. Rather, they were inspired with Ruach Hakodesh, and are thus regarded as being of divine origin. At the same time, it is also true to say that Devarim came to us through Moshe, which was a most necessary ingredient for us mortals to be able to grasp the Torah in the future.


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


It seems like a strange Halacha. This week’s Parsha tells us that a person guilty of manslaughter must seek refuge in the Ir Miklat until the Kohen Gadol passes away. Until then, he may not leave under any circumstances – even to save someone’s life! Even if he is a doctor whose skills are urgently needed; even if his testimony is required to acquit someone in a case of capital punishment; even if he is a brilliant commander who is indispensable to the Jewish army. In all of these cases and more, the inadvertent murderer cannot leave the Ir Miklat for even one moment! If he does leave, Halacha regards him as a “dead man”.


The question is obvious: Pikuach Nefesh overrides nearly all of Torah. We have not stopped hearing that message lately. If so, how could it be that an inadvertent murderer may not leave the Ir Miklat in order to save someone? What about the primacy of human life? 


The Rebbe answers: Since an inadvertent murderer becomes a “dead man” spiritually when he leaves the Ir Miklat, he ceases to have the power to save another person. Any efforts he expends in that regard will amount to nothing. Therefore, there is no point in his leaving the Ir Miklat to save a life, because his attempt will invariably fail.


This Halacha conveys an important message for us. The Torah is compared to an Ir Miklat, and we must constantly run our lives according to its precepts. At times, a person may be tempted to “leave the City of Refuge to save a life”. In other words, one may be tempted to compromise and make spiritual concessions in the hope that doing so will draw others closer to Torah or achieve some other important objective. The lesson from this week’s Parsha is that, when such efforts are not sanctioned by the Torah, then they are pointless because they will fail. If one departs the safe haven of Torah for even one moment, he will lose the ability to inspire others. Only by remaining completely “within” Torah does one have the power to positively influence others. In current times, when we are so preoccupied with our collective health, we must also maintain our focus on our attentiveness to Torah.


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas PINCHAS

Today marks the 39th Siyum HaRambam. The Rambam concludes his work with Yeshaya’s prophecy regarding the times of Moshiach: “The world will be filled with knowledge of Hashem as the waters cover the sea.” The Rebbe asks a simple question: The water doesn’t cover the sea! The water is the sea! Why does Yeshaya say that the water covers the sea?


The Rebbe answers that when one glances at an ocean from the outside, he doesn’t discern its specific state and form, i.e. the specific ecosystem it contains. As far as he is concerned, looking out over the waters of the Tasman is exactly the same experience as gazing across the English channel, just as the surface of the Great Barrier Reef might seem no different than that of the Mediterranean – even though the habitat below each of these surfaces are so totally different. All one sees is the water, which has the ability to take on so many other shapes and forms, and contain so many diverse bionetworks. Indeed, water “covers” the sea.


Presently, we perceive our world as limited to a particular form and state. That is because we are under the water, “in the sea” as it were, with its own particular ecosphere and paradigm. As a result, we don’t necessarily appreciate the endless possibilities of the world’s spiritual and G‑dly dimension – the “water”. We perceive “the sea”, but not the boundless possibilities of “the water” that sustains it. However, when Moshiach comes, the way we presently regard our world will be superimposed by its boundless spiritual and G‑dly potential. We will perceive how “the water” covers “the sea”.


The Rebbe instituted three cycles of Rambam, in order to enable every man, woman and child to participate. Some may perceive such a commitment to be beyond our limited capabilities. However, we are really all capable of much more. We just need to look past the boundaries of the paradigm we cast for ourselves, and look instead at the limitless potential of our abilities. Today, please commit – or recommit – to the Rebbe's Rambam campaign.


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


On the last Yom Kippur of his life, Shimon Hatzadik predicted his imminent passing. When asked how he knew, he answered, “Every Yom Kippur, an elderly man in white would enter and leave the Holy of Holies with me. Today, the elderly man was dressed in black. He entered with me, but he did not leave with me.”


What does this story mean? One explanation (attributed to Rabbi Soloveitchik) focuses on the fact that Shimon Hatzadik lived in the period immediately prior to the Chanukah story, when Jews were rapidly assimilating and becoming Hellenised. Despite the challenges and difficulties facing the nation, Shimon Hatzadik always managed to remain focused on the bright destiny of the Jewish People, the man dressed in white. However, the last year of his life, Shimon Hatzadik saw black. He reached a point where he could not see beyond the bleakness and futility of the moment. He despaired. And at that exact instant, Shimon Hatzadik was no longer capable of leading the nation. Sadly, he did not live to see the miracle of Chanukah. The message for us is the importance of remaining focused on our bright future even in the middle of the greatest despair.


Chassidus advances a similar message regarding the outwardly gloomy nature of the current Jewish month. Some of the most calamitous events to befall the Jewish People – such as the sin of the Golden Calf and the breaching of the walls of Yerushalayim – all occurred in the month of Tammuz. Indeed, the very name of the month itself, Tammuz, appears only once in the entire Tanach (Yechezkel 8:14), as the name of sun-worship. That passage depicts in vivid detail the sacrilege of the Jews in worshipping this ancient Mesopotamian sun-deity in the very Heichal of the Beis Hamikdash.


Yet, the literal meaning of Tammuz means heat, and it represents the warmth of our cherished relationship with Hashem. The very name which is reminiscent of blasphemy and paganism from one perspective is the same name which, from a different vantage point, reminds us of the heat and passion of our relationship with Hashem. Tammuz is thus a most apt name for this month, when we seek out the warmth and heat in the pervasive blackness of Golus.


This is what Tammuz is all about: To seek out the warmth that the darkest moments conceal. Indeed, as we come closer to the time of the redemption, the month of Tammuz has become synonymous not only with destruction, but with the Chagei Hageulah of Gimmel and Yud Beis-Gimmel Tammuz. In fact, this year, the fast of the 17th of Tammuz, which laments the pain of exile, is blessed by the Shabbos beforehand, the Chag Hageulah of Yud Beis Tammuz.


The Torah dares us to always see through the gloom and doom, and to uncover the bright opportunity inherent within each challenge. This attitude is vital in achieving our own personal Geulah, which will collectively bring about the ultimate Geulah.


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

parshas korach

On a blustery spring morning, in the leadup to Pesach 5732 (1972), a convoy of cars pulled up at the entrance of 770. Yitzchak Rabin, Israel’s ambassador at the time, came at the behest of the government to deliver their blessings to the Rebbe on the occasion of his seventieth birthday.


The conversation was private, so we do not know what exactly transpired. However, about twenty years after the visit, during his second term as prime minister, Yitzchak Rabin gave a video interview in which he recounted a fascinating point that came up in conversation, on the point of Ben Zoma’s statement “Who is rich? One who is happy with his lot.” [This week’s Pirkei Avos.] While others might believe that the rich are those who have more – more money, more properties, more assets, more stocks – Ben Zoma claims the opposite: True wealth is the one who is happy with what he has, because then he is content. This is the classic way of understanding Ben Zoma.


The Rebbe posed a question, so characteristic of the Rebbe: What is the virtue of such a life? A person who is content is one who does not improve, does not progress and does not grow! A person who does not expect more is a person who has lowered expectations, merely treading water and in essence forfeiting his potential. How can we live in such a way? If anything, the Torah always exhorts us to do the exact opposite: To utilise one’s life to the fullest and to exercise every single talent Hashem gave him to the utmost! We have merely to look to our forefathers to see how they constantly toiled to amass more and more wealth and assets.


The Rebbe answers by pointing out that Ben Zoma did not say that one should be “happy with what he has”. Rather, that one should be “happy with his lot”. With this, the Rebbe advances a novel and revolutionary interpretation of Ben Zoma’s statement – to be happy with one’s purpose and mission in this world. Everyone has a unique contribution that he is intended to contribute to mankind, and Hashem provides him his own “toolbox” with just the right tools to carry out his mission. Ben Zoma is telling us not to covet the role Hashem gave others, but to concentrate on one’s own mission. Don’t get side-tracked with another person’s job, family-dynamic, business, fame, success, talents or abilities – he is not you, and you are not him. And that is because his mission is not yours, and your mission is not his. Be content with your lot, but within that role, don’t be happy with what you have – keep climbing!


*     *     *


We see exactly the same theme in this week’s Parsha: Hashem had assured Moshe that the people would believe in him forever! When Hashem gave the Torah to Moshe, he did so in the presence of the entire Jewish nation, because He wanted every Jew to see with his own eyes that Moshe was the true prophet and leader. Hashem assured Moshe: “The people will hear Me speaking with you and they will then believe in you forever.” If so, how do we explain Korach’s revolt against Moshe’s leadership?


The Rebbe explains that Korach accepted Moshe as the paramount leader of the nation, and he most certainly did not question Moshe’s greatness. In fact, he instigated his rebellion precisely because he had such faith in Moshe’ abilities! Korach wanted to be Kohen Gadol, and he was sure that Moshe had the power to turn everyone into a Kohen Gadol by beseeching Hashem. Korach figured that he would just have to keep pressing Moshe’s buttons until he succumbed to the pressure.


But that would have been absolutely senseless, because Hashem’s master plan cannot be achieved through the role of a Kohen Gadol alone. The Divine plan also calls for regular Kohanim, Leviim and Yisraelim, men and women, young and old, Jews and gentiles, and so on. It calls for each and every one to excel at our role, as opposed to duplicating someone else’s role.


That is where Korach went wrong. He had his own personal agenda and aspirations, clinging to them at the expense of fulfilling his own destiny. Little matter that he was needed as a Levi; he wanted to be Kohen Gadol. Aspiring to greatness is laudable, but one cannot allow it to encroach on one’s core mission, the purpose of his entire existence.


Yesterday was Gimmel Tammuz. Of course, all of us is reflecting upon the Rebbe’s leadership and what it means to us. A central part of that is working out exactly where we fit into the picture. Are we properly focused on what is needed from each of us personally? Are we making sure that our personal desires and whims are not distracting us achieving the things we are uniquely needed for? And what are we doing to achieve the Rebbe’s mission of bringing Moshiach? By redoubling our efforts, may we be immediately reunited with the Rebbe in the fullest sense of the word, with the coming of Moshiach now!


Wishing you a Good Shabbos!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Our Parsha discusses the Mekoshesh, the person who transgressed Shabbos by gathering sticks. Contrary to our first impression, Chazal clarify that the Mekoshesh was quite the saint; a man who nobly chose to transgress Shabbos and forfeit his life in order to impress upon his fellows the retribution incurred for transgression, and thereby enhance the nation’s Mitzvah observance.


An obvious question: If you are really and truly passionate about an ideal, do you contravene it to “set an example”? Do you think someone passionate about road safety would drink to incoherence and cause a series of driving fatalities in order to wind up as the poster boy on all those “you bloody idiot” billboards? Do you reckon that someone obsessed with diet and fitness would gain 800 pounds to demonstrate what morbid obesity looks like? Can you see a climate change activist burning through fossil fuels in order to generate carbon emissions – all taxable of course? If the answer is a resounding no, then how could the Mekoshesh transgress a key Mitzvah to highlight the importance of Mitzvah observance?


The Maharsha explains that the Mekoshesh had a “Yiddishe Chap” up his sleeve. With regards to Shabbos, the Torah forbids Melacha only when it is performed for the sake of its intended outcome, and not for the sake of a completely side benefit. The Mekoshesh realised that if he collected the sticks, it would appear like a real Melacha to the people, because they would assume that he actually needed the sticks. However, he, and only he, would know that he did not truly transgress Shabbos, because he collected the sticks for the completely side benefit of setting a precedent for his people. He would thereby drive home his point without truly violating Shabbos!


But, if so, there is a hitch to the whole story! When the people asked how to punish the Mekoshesh, Hashem should have clarified that he was in fact exempt, for Hashem certainly perceived his motives. Why did Hashem instruct that he be stoned to death?


The Rebbe teaches that this episode, arguably more than any other in the Torah, truly drives home the maxim of Hamaase Hu Haikar – Action is the main thing! Not only is action more important than one’s motive, but action frames one’s motive. In other words, a person’s thoughts and motives are interpreted through the prism of his deeds, to the point that they cannot be compartmentalised. To the point that, even from Hashem’s perspective, the Mekoshesh’s motive was interpreted by his deed! Since it looked like he was breaking Shabbos in the world of action, then that is what he was doing in the world of thought as well.


As we gear up towards Gimmel Tammuz, now is an especially opportune time to reflect on the Rebbe’s ideals. One theme that looms large is Hamaase Hu Haikar; it was practically one of the Rebbe’s catchphrases. The Rebbe was not content with an army of intellectuals and academics full of profound theories and philosophies, for then we would be lacking – not only in deed, but in motive as well. Instead, the Rebbe encouraged us to focus on deed, and allow it to frame our motives. Let us concern ourselves far more with what our actions mean to others than what they mean to ourselves.


Wishing you a Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


It once happened that Erev Pesach fell on Shabbos. Owing to the fact that the calendar was not yet fixed, but based on actual moon sightings, no one could remember the last time Erev Pesach fell on Shabbos. Crucially, no one knew whether the Korbon Pesach could be offered up on Shabbos. Even the Bnei Bseira, the leaders of the generation, did not know what to do. They asked: “Is there any person who knows whether the Korbon Pesach overrides Shabbos?”


No one knew. No one, that is, besides a certain man, Hillel, who had come up from Babylonia to Jerusalem. He had diligently studied with the two most eminent scholars of the previous generation, Shmaya and Avtalyon. The Bnei Bseira summoned Hillel, and to make a long story short, not only did he know that the Korbon Pesach is offered up on Shabbos, but he presented an exegetical foundation for his reply. In a nutshell, he demonstrated that the Korban Pesach should be regarded as no different than any other communal Korban, all of which overrides Shabbos. So impressed were the Bnei Bseirah that they immediately abdicated their leadership in favour of Hillel.


There is a simple problem with this story – our Parsha! We clearly read that the Jews offered up the Korbon Pesach on the 14th of Nissan in the second year of their sojourn in the desert. And equally clear is that the Mishkan was inaugurated on Sunday, the 1st of Nissan, of the very same year. If the 1st of Nissan was Sunday, then the 14th of Nissan was Shabbos, and we thus have a supremely clear and simple proof that the Korbon Pesach was offered up on Shabbos. Why was this precedent not invoked?


Let us preface the answer to this question by noting the uniqueness of the first two times the Jews offered up the Korban Pesach. The first time, back in Egypt, was a completely individualised experience. There was no Mishkan nor Mikdash, no communal altar and no Kohanim or other community representatives. The whole thing was literally in house – by the family for the family.


One year later, the Korban Pesach was the exact opposite; it was a completely collective experience. It was the only time in Jewish history that the entire nation was present. All the Jews lived in the same camp, and the same three Kohanim (astoundingly!) served as the community’s representatives to offer up all the thousands of animals on their behalf.


Every Korban Pesach since then exhibited a combination of both elements. There was the collective element, in the sense that all Jews offered it up together, in the same place, through the same group of Kohanim. Yet, this collective element was itself somewhat individualised, with the entire nation being divided into three groups. There was also the individual element in the sense that the Korban Pesach was taken home. Yet, this individualistic element was itself somewhat broadened by partaking of it with a close-knit group of family or friends, and not simply alone.


Keeping this in mind, the fact that the Korban Pesach in our Parsha was offered up on Shabbos was a no-brainer, for it was a purely communal sacrifice on that occasion, no different than any other community sacrifice that overrides Shabbos. Bnei Bseirah struggled with the status of all subsequent Pesach sacrifices. They perceived the focus on the collective to be somewhat compromised by the simultaneous focus on individuality, and they thought perhaps it could not override Shabbos. Hillel established that the Korban Pesach’s communal status is in no way compromised by the individuality it exhibits. If anything, it is enhanced by it.


The Rebbe derives a most relevant lesson from this, so apt for our times: We cannot focus on the collective at the expense of individuality, for in doing so, we would cease to accept or appreciate how each person is gifted in his or her unique way. Neither can we concern ourselves with individuality at the expense of the collective, for then everyone will be self-absorbed; highly cognisant of his or her own skills, talents and uniqueness, but harnessing it selfishly instead of for the collective good. The correct approach is synergising both elements. We need to inject individuality into our collectivism; this reminds us that although everyone matters equally, everyone is simultaneously different. We also need to inject collectivism into our individuality; this reminds us to use our talents for others, and for the greater good, at the same time respecting the uniqueness of what everyone else brings to the table.


Wishing you a Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


You may have felt deprived of Birchas Kohanim in recent times. On Pesach, we did not have it at all. Even on Shavuos, it was heard only by those who could attend a capacity-controlled Minyan. It is little wonder then that, with our Parsha containing the Mitzvah of Birchas Kohanim, we pay a little more attention to it than usual.


But the whole Mitzvah of Birchas Kohanim seems hard to understand: What is the purpose of the whole exercise? If Hashem is the ultimate source of all good, why does He need or desire that the Kohanim bless the Jews? Why doesn’t Hashem just shower all His gifts upon us Himself? Why place intermediaries between Himself and His People?


In fact, the Midrash states that when the Jews initially learned of Birchas Kohanim, they immediately protested, “Why should the Kohanim bless us? We don’t need their blessing; we would much rather be blessed directly from You.” Nevertheless, Hashem insisted, and so it is to this very day – the Kohanim are the one to bless the Jews!


A mundane banking experience may illuminate the issue at hand. Imagine you have just been given a cheque for a large sum of money. You know that the bank account you are drawing the cheque against contains the required funds. And yet, you encounter bureaucracy, and delay after delay – the bank doesn’t like the way the cheque was signed, they are concerned that it may have been altered, they balk at the high sum, their computers are down, they’re already closed for the day, as well as the next two days because it’s a weekend, and yet another day because it’s a long weekend… and so on, and so forth. Experiences such as these are very frustrating, especially when you know the money is there and waiting, but you can’t quite access it. Nevertheless, if you’re lucky enough to have a well-connected contact at the bank, you might be lucky in speeding up an otherwise protracted process.


In similar fashion, Chassidus explains that we all have cheques to cash from the supernal bank vaults above – gifts of health, wealth and happiness. But many of us encounter delays in trying to cash those cheques. Those very gifts which we are entitled to, which are waiting and available for us in the highest worlds, may be delayed or prevented from reaching our world. That is where the Kohanim step in. They serve as our well-connected contacts who can unplug all the stoppages and obstacles and allow our gifts to flow downward, in an unimpeded fashion. Just like the word Bracha, which is etymologically related to Havracha, meaning “propagate”, as well as Birkayim, which means “knees”. The Kohanim have the power to access the gifts which are already available above and make them propagate below, literally lowering them down just as someone who lowers himself on his knees.


May we immediately merit to receive all the gifts awaiting us, culminating in the biggest gift of all – Moshiach Now!


Wishing you a Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


It was a couple of years ago, on the first day of Shavuos. I was deep in conversation with another rabbi when he abruptly shifted gears. “Nu,” he asked with a smile, “What did you darshen about in Shule today?”


I responded with a laugh, “First day Shavuos? No Drosho! I never have and I don’t think I ever will. With all the kids – it’s a tough crowd, a really tough crowd.” Puckering his brow, he responded, “Hmm, that’s what I should have done. My Drosho was a challenge – to put it mildly – because of the kids.”


Whether or not anyone will miss a Drosho this year I don’t know. However, I will certainly miss the din and chatter of our cherubic clan at Shule. They are always brimming with such enthusiasm to receive the Torah… and some ice-cream!


But what is it about bringing the children to Shule? How many of them understand the Aseres Hadibros anyway? For what purpose was the Rebbe’s directive?


We have all heard countless times the Midrash which states that Hashem agreed to give the Torah only once the children were offered as guarantors. What is the practical message of the Midrash? What outcome is it driving at? Is the Midrash expecting anything from the adults too, or is it purely about the children?


An instinctive answer might be that the Midrash is encouraging the children to learn and the adults to teach. However, in truth, this can’t be the extent of it. Were that the case, it would have been far more apt for our older teenagers to serve as the guarantors, because the Gemoro in Kiddushin establishes 16-24 as the most productive years of learning. As such, it cannot be said that the uniqueness of children is purely about their learning ability or their information gathering.


Rather, explains the Rebbe, it is much more about how impressionable and enthusiastic our children are. We can all relate to this by evoking our own vivid memories of the past, the days of our childhood. The enchanting images of our youth touch us in a deep way, and our minds hold dear the things that captivated us as a bright-eyed and pure child. Experiences are embedded in this way only when we are young. With age comes cynicism and disinterest, and events or experiences do not leave quite the same mark or have the same lasting impact.


So, returning to the question: “Does the Midrash require anything from the adults?” The Rebbe explains that it sure does. Children are capable of incredible encounters, but someone needs to facilitate it for them. As parents, educators or older family-members, we need to create those moments, ones that will have an enduring impression. And since we can never know which experiences will be the ones that resonate with our children forever, we must generate as many such moments as possible. Even in the simple things, be it the bedtime Shema, the morning Modeh Ani, or the way the Shabbos table is conducted. And that, says the Rebbe, is exactly the reason we bring the children to Shule, with such fanfare, on the first day of Shavuos.


This year, we will all miss the din and chatter of our cherubic clan at Shule. But we should still strive to make them brim with enthusiasm to receive the Torah… and some ice-cream! Let us create a magical Shavuos for them, an experience they will remember and cherish for many years to come.


Wishing you a Good Yom Tov and Kabolas Hatorah B’Simcha ub”Pnimiyus

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


My mind is cast back to Shabbos Bamidbar seven years ago. For those who don’t remember, it was the very first Shabbos of Young Yeshivah, back in the days of the foyer. My older children occasionally remind me of a conversation that transpired on the way to Shule. They were younger children back then, perhaps still under the innocent impression that daddies have prophetic ability, and they wanted to know whether this new institution would be a success. I responded, “Who knows? Shule will certainly be full this week because everyone always wants in on the latest action. But time will tell if this is just a passing fad or something deeper. We should know in three or four weeks.”


We all know the answer by now. This Shabbos marks seven years since the date of our inception, and we thank Hashem that Young Yeshivah is such a vibrant and caring community. Every anniversary is special, but there is something particularly meaningful about our seventh – Kol Hashvi’in Chavivin. All the same, one thing we surely did not foresee, even as recently as three months ago, is that our seventh anniversary would occur during the continued closure of our Shule, the hub and heart of our community.


And this takes us right to this week’s Parsha, which details the camping arrangements of the Jewish Nation. Rashi explains that the Jews camped just within the Techum of the Mishkan, so that they could attend even on Shabbos. The Rebbe sees a momentous problem here. Rashi chose to explain why the Jews did not camp any further away, but shouldn’t he have been explaining the exact opposite – why the Jews did not live any closer? What could be better than living right next to the Mishkan, literally at its doorstep?


The Rebbe explains that there are indeed two distinct issues here. The first is why the Jews did not live any closer. However, the solution to that is so obvious that Rashi did not even see a need to explain it. As much as the Jews wanted to live as closely as possible, there was a clear danger – anyone who conducted himself inappropriately in the vicinity of the Mishkan would forfeit his life, as clearly set forth in this week’s Parsha. Thus, it is of little wonder that the Jews kept their distance, for their own safety and wellbeing.


If anything, the real question is the one that Rashi addresses: If the Jews were so concerned about their safety and wellbeing, why didn’t they camp at an ever-greater distance? That is the question which Rashi addresses. He explains that the Jews were trying to maintain a balance – even if they could not live too close, for their own safety and protection, they still regarded the Mishkan as the nucleus of their lives, to the point that they desired constant connection, even on Shabbos.


This speaks a little to the times we find ourselves in. On the one hand, we find ourselves at figurative distance from our Mikdash Me’at – our Shules and centres of learning – in order to guard public health. On the other hand, our Shules and centres of learning continue to remain the focal point of our lives, at least in thought if not in practice. Our deepest desire is to resume access as before. “Where a person’s desire is, that is where he is actually to be found.” May Hashem speedily facilitate our return – not just immediately, but also in the fullest sense possible, in the Beis Hamikdash Hashlishi.


Wishing you a good Shabbos, a good Chodesh and Kabolas Hatorah B’Simcha ub”Pnimiyus

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


One of the foundations of Western society, if not its very cornerstone, is the fundamental right to freedom and the protection of civil liberties. This week’s Parsha has something to say about freedom: “And you shall sanctify the fiftieth year, and proclaim freedom for slaves throughout the land … and you shall return, each man to his property.” The Hebrew word for freedom is Dror. Chazal explain its etymology by linking it with the word Dirah, which refers to a place of dwelling. Thus, the word Dror literally means, “One who dwells in the dwelling of his choice.”


The Rebbe asks: Why is this word used to capture the essence of freedom? Is the only important difference between freedom and slavery that you can build your house where you want? What about the freedom to eat what you want, to sleep when you want, to earn and spend money as you wish, to wear the clothing you want, and to enjoy life as a whole?


Another issue: Elsewhere in Tanach, a bird’s freedom is also called Dror. However, in that context, Chazal explain that the bird is free precisely for the opposite reason – because it doesn’t need a home! How do we explain this dichotomy; that the freedom of man is expressed in attaching himself to a home, whereas the freedom of a bird is expressed in its lack of a home?


The Rebbe explains that freedom can be applied in two ways. One person might channel his freedom in the right to indulge, i.e. he is a “taker”. Another person might channel his freedom in the right to achieve, i.e. he is a “giver”. The first type of freedom involves throwing off the shackles of restraint and self-discipline, and adopting an “I’ll do what I want” mentality. The second type of freedom requires one to embrace restraint and self-control so that he can focus his energy on realising his achievement.


The Torah is telling us that the first type of freedom is suitable in the animal kingdom. However, for a human, the freedom to indulge is not true freedom. Man was created to achieve, and if he squanders his right of freedom in indulging himself, he will eventually feel trapped in the realisation that he has no purpose. True freedom is when man channels it to build a home – his own personal and permanent achievement.


Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


According to the weather forecast, the Lag B’omer parade of 5750 (1990) was supposed to be completely washed out. And rain it did – just about everywhere else in the tristate area. Even in most of Brooklyn it rained. But in Crown Heights, the overcast skies cleared shortly before 10am. The weather remained perfect throughout the parade, and you can even hear the commentators discuss it on the video of that year’s parade. It only began to get cloudy and drizzle at 2:00pm, when the parade was scheduled to end. There was only one problem – the parade was running a little late, and it wasn’t quite over when the rain came at 2:00pm.


The event organiser, Rabbi Sholom Ber Baumgarten of Tzivos Hashem, panicked. He called over to Rabbi JJ Hecht, who was standing near the Rebbe, “Quick, tell the Rebbe its raining! Ask for a Brocho!” Rabbi Hecht may not have realized that his microphone was still on as he called back, “Trust me, the Rebbe knows it raining. He's standing in it!” About 10 minutes later, the parade was over. The Rebbe went into 770, and the heavens burst open as the drizzle turned into a torrential shower.


This amusing anecdote is actually reminiscent of a Zohar which tells how the world once needed rain, and Rashbi’s students came to him for help. Rashbi recited a Torah teaching and the rains fell. The Rebbe asks: Why did Rashbi wait for his students to come and ask for rain? Didn’t he already know that the world needed rain? The Rebbe answers with the well-known Chassidic precept regarding the additional power vested in the Mashpia (giver) when the Mekabel (recipient) draws himself close. Similarly, the students coming to the Rashbi wrought an elevation in Rashbi himself, and only then could he make it rain.


One of the obvious messages is the importance of enhancing our own Hiskashrus. By strengthening our own bond with the Rebbe – through learning his Torah and fulfilling his directives – we bring about more Brochos for all of us and the whole world. What greater time to do this than Lag B’Omer, a special day which the Rebbe so treasured as an auspicious time to focus on Jewish pride and unity. When we draw close to our leader and further his initiatives, which we will have ample opportunity to do this week, we will shower our communities and the world with blessings, culminating in the biggest of all – Moshiach now! 


Wishing you a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

PARSHAS acharei kedoshim

Yom Kippur is still quite some time away, but the first section of this week’s Parsha describes the special Avoida of Yom Kippur. Its annual culmination is recounted in the words of Chazal. In vivid detail, the Gemoro portrays the jubilation and fanfare that erupted as the Jews escorted the Kohen Gadol from the Beis Hamikdash to his home where a grand feast and celebration awaited them.


The simple reason for the celebration was the mere fact that the Kohen Gadol was still alive.  As the Posuk attests to in this week’s Parsha, if a Kohen Gadol was unworthy, he would be instantly struck dead. Lest anyone think this is an exaggeration, here are the mathematics: The second Beis Hamikdash stood for 420 years, and more than 300 people served as Kohen Gadol during that period. 130 years encompasses the combined stewardships of Shimon Hatzadik, Yochanan Kohen Gadol and Elazar ben Charson. That leaves about 300 other people who served as Kohanim Gedolim for the remaining 290 years.   


However, the Rebbe explains that there was a much deeper reason for the celebration. For seven days prior to Yom Kippur, the Kohen Gadol left his home, his wife and his family. He dwelled a pure and hermetical existence in the Beis Hamikdosh, far removed from the distractions of reality. This tremendous high climaxed on Yom Kippur when the Kohen Gadol performed the spiritual and lofty Avoidah. However, a spiritual high which achieves nothing practical in our world is useless. In fact, it can be tragic – as exemplified by Nadav and Avihu, the children of Aharon, who expired in the Kodesh Kodoshim in great mystical ecstasy.


The Jews knew that the Kohen Gadol’s divine service in the Beis Hamikdosh was itself not a cause for celebration. It was a tremendous opportunity, but it carried immense risk. The one and only thing indeed worthy of celebration was his safe homecoming – the opportunity to inject the material and the mundane with the spiritual gifts attained over the course of Yom Kippur.

Wishing you a Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Story time: The heavenly academy debated a certain type of questionable leprosy. Hakadosh Boruch Hu said it was pure, but all the other sages declared it impure. To resolve the dispute, they sent the Angel of Death to summon Rabbah, due to his singular expertise in the laws of leprosy (“Yochid B’Negaim”). As Rabbah’s soul departed, he pronounced, “It is pure; it is pure.” [The story is actually many times more captivating, and available in full at this link:]

This story seems puzzling. If Hashem declared the leprosy pure, how could the sages say otherwise? And, if they dared reject the opinion of Hashem, what made the words of Rabbah superior? Furthermore, how are we to explain the difference between Hashem and Rabbah – Hashem said “it is pure” (once); yet Rabbah said “it is pure, it is pure” (twice).

The Rebbe explains that when one confronts difficult circumstances, his reaction will reflect where he himself stands:

1.       A very physical and materialistic being will immediately jump to superficial conclusions and assume the worst; he will tell you where there is smoke there is fire. From his perspective, evil is a reality which looms large. Thus, the sages of the heavenly academy, all souls who once lived this physical world and connected with it, regarded the suspicious leprosy as most certainly impure.

2.       A more spiritual being will more easily see the silver lining in the clouds. He transcends the physicality of the world, and for him, evil does not loom as large a reality. He is connected with the G-dly manifestation known as Hakadosh Boruch Hu, and he thus regards the suspected leprosy as pure. Nevertheless, this is declared only once, without emphasis, because his perception can still fathom the opposing view.

3.       But then you have someone who is completely connected with Atzmus, Hashem’s very Essence, which transcends even the level of Hakadosh Boruch Hu. From this perspective, nothing exists outside of Hashem’s goodness. When such a person encounters suspected leprosy, not only does he regard it as pure, but he cannot accept any other possibility. Thus, Rabbah emphatically declared twice “it is pure, it is pure” to indicate that it could not be any other way – and the sages were swayed. This is why Rabbah is called “Yochid B’Negaim”, because for him, the level of “Yochid” (the Singularity of Hashem) is palpable even in something as lowly as Negaim (leprosy).

This incisive explanation gives us a lot to think about in general; how much more so in our current “interesting times”. One simple message is that the conclusions we draw reflect where we ourselves stand. Our judgement says more about us than the events swirling around us.

Wishing you a Good Shabbos & a Good Chodesh,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


Imagine walking into a Yeshivah or Kollel and seeing someone studying diligently. (Yes, these days we have no choice but to imagine…) Impressed, you approach him and ask what he’s learned. He responds, “Well, I counted how many words appear on this page and then I counted how many letters it has. Then, I worked out which is the middle word and letter of the page.” You’d probably walk away thinking that he missed the point.


Well, the Gemoro tells us that the earliest sages were known as “Sofrim” (counters), because they counted how many letters the Torah has. They determined that the middle letter appears in this week’s Parsha – the enlarged Vov of the word “Gachon”, which refers to a snake. Similarly, they counted all the words in the Torah and determined that the middle words also appear in this week’s Parsha – the words “Dorosh Dorash”, a double expression referring to expounding. What are we to make of this number-crunching?


Chassidus explains that the Torah’s words represent its “Chitzoniyus” (outward dimension), for words convey meaning that a human mind can grasp. When one looks at the words, he may fall into the trap of believing that the Torah alternates between two conflicting realities – the saintly high-road which is the focus of the positive commandments, and the evil underworld which is the focus of the negative commandments. This is why the two “halves” of Torah meet at the words “Dorosh Dorash”, for a superficial grasp of Torah deems good and evil as separate realities, and gives us “two separate ways of expounding”, in order to account for two separate realities.


Conversely, the individual letters of Torah don’t have any apparent meaning of their own; they are not decodable and they therefore transcend our intellect. The Torah’s letters thus represent its “Pnimiyus” (esoteric dimension), for when one looks at them, all he perceives is a holy letter of the Sefer Torah. When one views the Torah on this deeper level, he discerns that all of existence – without exception – is part of the G-dly reality. This is represented in the Vov of Gachon, where something as evil as the snake is highlighted with an enlarged Vov, whose long and narrow pole-like shape illustrates its ability to connect the lowest level with the highest level, and one discerns that the real purpose of evil – the snake – is to be elevated and unified with the good, to the point that it is not a separate existence for itself, but part of the G-dly reality. This is why “Nochosh” has the same Gematria as “Moshiach”, for the goal is to fuse the snake, and all it represents, with the highest levels of Moshiach.


When we look around us and perceive painful realities, we must remember that their purpose is somehow for the advancement of positivity. One way of attaining such perspective is through the study of Chassidus. Although it may not seem as graspable as the revealed dimension of Torah, it gives us the insight to find the good within the evil, and empowers us to merge these two seemingly conflicting realities.


Wishing you a Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Based on Maharsha Kiddushin 30a, Ohr Hatorah Shmini pages 240-250, and Likutei Sichos Chelek 17 Sicha 4. See Ohr Hatorah how this is also seen in the name Shmuel and Tiferes Shebtiferes, associated with the Yahrtzeit of the Rebbe Maharash on the second of Iyar.

Shevi'i & Acharon shel pesach 5780

“Is Shehecheyanu recited tonight?” It is a quite common question many people ask each Yom Tov, and the answer is quite simple: We always recite Shehecheyanu, on every night of every Yom Tov, with only one exception – the last two days of Pesach. Why? One answer can be traced back to a touching episode recounted by the Frierdiker Rebbe:


During Pesach of 5666, in the township of Lubavitch, two granddaughters of the Rebbe Rashab were playing in the dining room. The young five-year old girl, who would later become famous as Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka, asked her older sister: “What exactly is the nature of this Yom Tov of Acharon Shel Pesach.”


“Why, it’s a Yom Tov like any other,” answered the older girl.


“This cannot be,” retorted Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka. “It is most certainly not like every Yom Tov, because we did not recite Shehecheyanu at candle-lighting.”


The Rebbe Rashab, who was in his room learning, was interrupted by the sounds of fierce debate. Intrigued, he emerged to see what the argument was about, and was reminded of another similar incident that occurred many years prior. Later that night, at the Seudas Yom Tov, the Rebbe Rashab recounted in vivid detail how, as a young child, he had asked the very same question of his father at the Yom Tov meal. When none of his siblings could provide a satisfactory answer, they all went along with their father, the Rebbe Maharash, to seek clarification from their grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek.


The Tzemach Tzedek explained, “On the first days of Pesach, we celebrate the first redemption through the first redeemer, Moshe Rabbenu. On the final days of Pesach, we celebrate the final redemption through the final redeemer, our righteous Moshiach.” Shehecheyanu can only be recited when we feel the joy in our flesh and bones, and while we are still in exile and Moshiach has not yet arrived, we cannot thank Hashem for having “granted us life ... to reach this occasion”.


Even so, the absentee Brocho was a common topic of conversation at the Yom Tov tables of the Rebbeim, as well as in their Sichos. This seems strange: If it is not the time to recite Shehecheyanu, why dwell so extensively on its absence? In one approach, the Rebbe explains that talking about our inability to recite Shehecheyanu for the future redemption awakens a heightened desire and longing for it, and “a person is where his thoughts are.” Moreover, our focus on the absent Brocho aggravates our pain over the exile, and this pain itself has the power to break the exile.


This year, there will be a lot of things absent these last days of Pesach other than Shehecheyanu. Staying up the whole night amid the camaraderie of friends. Standing in Shule for the Shirah. Duchenen. Marching relentlessly on Tahalucha. Reciting Yizkor before the Aron Hakodesh, or leaving Shule at that time. Listening to the magnificent Haftorah of Achron Shel Pesach. Gathering with the entire community for the Seudas Moshiach. Yes, “a person is where his thoughts are”, and on one level we will very much be there. But on another level, may the pain of this compounded void break the exile, and may we speedily recite Shehecheyanu for the coming of Moshiach!


Wishing you a good Yom Tov, may we celebrate the ultimate זמן חרותנו  today!


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches


*The Gates of Prophecy*


If you’re like me, you’ve been swamped with social media videos related to COVID-19. If you’re like me, one video that really jumped out at you is a Ted Talk from March 2015. If you’re like me, you can’t help but be amazed at the spot-on accuracy of Bill Gates’ forecast. And if you’re like me, you can’t help but admit that, had you seen it as recently as three months ago, you would have wrongfully dismissed it as the words of a man who has more time and money than he knows what to do with it.


My mind then harks back to the days of the Prophets who walked the twisting, winding roads of our heart and home, Jerusalem. Sometimes they foretold of impending doom. The people did not listen. Just as often, if not more so, they heralded our bright destiny. But the people still did not listen, in a phenomenon that traces itself all the way back to the Egyptian servitude, when “Moshe spoke of the redemption to the children of Israel, but they did not hearken because of their shortness of breath and hard labour.”


Are we to blame them? In our present day, we were all deaf to a prediction based on hard data and solid science. What then of a prophecy that defies it all?


There has been a lot of Moshiach talk lately. That we are experiencing the birth pangs of Moshiach. That this is a necessary preparatory step to his imminent arrival. That the breakdown of society paves the way for an upgrade. That if it ain’t broke first, how’re ya gonna fix it? That the Egyptian exodus occurred only after “I passed over you and beheld you wallowing in blood.”


Personally, I’m a bit jaded; this kind of talk doesn’t speak to me. I am not sure why so many tragedies are needed as a vital step towards the coming of Moshiach.


What does speak to me is the Rebbe’s constant refrain, drawn from the Gemoro, “Kvar Kalu Kol Hakitizin – all the times and events predicating Moshiach’s arrival has long past”. The Rebbe taught us that any present-day hardship or difficulty is not needed as another step towards Moshiach. To the contrary, each hardship and difficulty should be added to the all-too-big pile of unanswered questions as to why Moshiach has not arrived long ago. So I am not attempting to understand and explain what is neither understandable nor explainable.


However, just as any other time, we must be Moshiach-oriented. And one lesson we can surely glean is how the impossible so quickly became possible. If coronavirus instantly transformed the entire world, is it so much harder to believe that Moshiach will do the same?


Of all the Rebbe’s Pesach insights, one of the most stirring is one that I have sermonised about in past years, as well as essayed about in the Young Yeshivah Magazine of Pesach 5778 (“The Sleep of the Righteous”.) This year, that message hits home more than ever before, if such a thing is possible. There is no way I could serve it justice in a short summary here, so you are encouraged to (re)read that essay in full, or learn it in the source. But here is the gist of the Rebbe’s message, which focuses on one of the miracles of Pesach night – when Hashem saved the Jews by annihilating the colossal army of Sancheriv at the stroke of midnight.


Imagine how matters must have seemed just one minute beforehand; the gloomy atmosphere that must have pervaded Jerusalem upon facing the mightiest army in the world. Militarily, there was no likelihood of the Jews surviving the onslaught of Sancheriv, let alone becoming wealthy on account of it. The Jews were defenceless and outnumbered, their king and commander-in-chief recovering from a grave illness, and their city mired in deep moral strife and political turmoil. Economically, the besieged nation faced abject famine, including the prospect of eating their own dung and drinking their own urine out of sheer desperation. Yet, in the face of it all, Hashem demanded only one thing from King Chizkiyahu and the Jews – to believe that everything would change in an instant. That surely must have seemed nigh impossible at the time, but that is exactly what ended up happening.


The Rebbe explains that our modern world also seems to be regressing on so many fronts, be it personally, religiously, morally, politically, economically and militarily. One might wonder how it could be possible for everything to abruptly right itself with the instant coming of Moshiach, the ingathering of the Jewish People and the building of the Beis Hamikdash. How could all this be conceivable when there is widespread poverty and disease, multiple wars unfolding on different continents, political turmoil and religious corruption? Pesach night reminds us that not only could it happen, but in fact, it already did happen. No matter how bleak the outlook, no matter how demoralised we might feel, no matter how distant and unlikely the Redemption may seem, the story of Sancheriv reminds us that everything can and will change in an instant. That instant is NOW!


Wishing you a Kosher un Freilachen Pesach,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas Tzav 5780

One of the hidden prodigies of the previous century was Rabbi Yisrael Zev Gustman, Rosh Yeshiva of Netzach Yisroel in Yerushalayim. Already at the young age of twenty, he was handpicked to serve as a Dayan in the court of the illustrious Rabbi Chaim Ozer Grodzinski of Vilna. After tragically losing a child to the holocaust, he moved to America with the surviving members of his family, where he served a stint as Rosh Yeshivah in 770, before finally settling in Israel.

One time, students walking past his house were astonished to see Rabbi Gustman tending to the gardening. “May we water the plants instead?” they asked so as to spare him the trouble. Rabbi Gustman demurred. After this transpired several times, his students protested that Kovod Hatorah could not allow for their scholarly dean to squander his precious time on so demeaning a task.

Hearing this, Rabbi Gustman decided to share the motive behind his unexpected hobby. “I was once strolling alongside Rabbi Grodzinski through a forest. We were heavily engrossed in deep conversation and I barely noticed my surroundings. Suddenly, Rabbi Grodzinski interrupted the Talmudic discourse in favour of one on the topic of botany. ‘This plant is nutritious; that vegetation is poisonous.’ And so it went. He lectured about the berries and mushrooms, explaining which were edible and which were not. I was greatly taken aback by the seemingly random course our discussion had gone, but I listened with the greatest respect and etched everything he said into my mind.

“Years later, when the Second World War broke out, I managed to hide in a forest, but I had no food. The hunger was unbearable. I had already despaired, when Rabbi Grodzinski’s horticulture lessons suddenly came back to me. As I took in my surroundings, I no longer saw useless greenery, but sustenance. I survived the war thanks to those plants. And that is why I cultivate my garden every single day, to thank the greenery that saved my life.”

It is now that time of year when we are highly attuned to all things Chometz and Matzah. Accordingly, it is hard to ignore how the Korbon Todah, taught in this week’s Parsha, included both 10 loaves of Chometz and 30 loaves of Matzah. This was exceedingly novel, for Chometz was generally prohibited in the Beis Hamikdash. Why did the thanksgiving sacrifice contain Chometz, and why was it still outnumbered by the Matzah?

There are two reasons why people might not give thanks. The first owes itself to high expectations, and the inevitable disappointment when one’s hopes and dreams are dashed. The fixation on what could have been distracts one from seeing the real blessings in life. And even when one achieves what he wished, feelings of self-entitlement will erase all sentiment of thanks, or he will find it below his dignity to do so. The antidote to this is 30 loaves of Matzah – a large dose of Bittul.

However, too much Bittul can create the delusion that our thanks is meaningless and pointless. “If Mr Nobody says thank you, why should it matter to anyone or anything? What difference could it possibly make?” The antidote to this is 10 loaves of Chometz – a small dose of healthy self-esteem. The Todah teaches us that there is no Mr Nobody among our people, and the thanks we bestow upon Hashem and our peers certainly goes a long way.

COVID19 has disrupted our lives enormously. Some of the news we are hearing has been awfully tragic. At the same time, with a little thought and attention, we can surely see how COVID19 has highlighted many reasons to give thanks – both to Hashem, as well as our fellow man. Let us be neither too proud nor meek to do so. Just like our protagonist in the opening story, who was neither too proud to show his thanks, nor did he consider as too meaningless his particular mode of thanks.


Good Shabbos & a Kosher un Freilachen Pesach,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VAYIKRA 5780

The Gap in Our Lives



Reb Monia Monnessohn, an extremely affluent diamond merchant, was one instructed by the Rebbe Maharash to review a certain Maamar 400 times. Being the busy person that he was, Reb Monia knew that he could never accomplish this task whilst managing his multifaceted affairs. So he took a leave of absence and booked into a hotel at an international destination. For a full month, Reb Monia put his life on hold and immersed himself in the Maamar. Ever since, Reb Monia truly lived that Maamar. Even when deeply involved in his business affairs, Reb Monia felt the Maamar accompanying him wherever he went and leaving its mark on whatever he did.


In explaining the gaps that appear in the Torah, Rashi tells us (right at the beginning of this week’s Parsha) that Hashem did not teach the Torah to Moshe in one continuous block. Rather, He constantly paused and waited, giving Moshe time to let the subject sink in. After all, when one learns without pausing to reflect and ponder, he often remains completely oblivious to the depth and scope of what he just learned, especially as the profoundest messages often lurk just below the surface of simple-sounding lessons. Furthermore, when one learns without turning the topic over in his mind many times, he does not assimilate it as well as he could, and the lesson does not last. By incorporating gaps into the Torah, Hashem is telling us that meaningful pauses are an integral part of the pursuit of Torah. We are required to take some time out to ponder and reflect, to absorb and internalise, and not simply rush off to the next thing.


This message is especially potent in the frenzied world of our modern era. We live in an age where there is always something to keep us busy at any moment of the day and night, and multiple diversions are always competing for our attention. Many have forgotten the art of “switching off” – or have confused it with the artlessness of “switching to something else”.


COVID19 has given us a gap like we never imagined. Some of us now have more time and headspace than before. Others will have it quite the opposite, but are still viewing the world from an entirely different perspective. Regardless, we all feel gaps in our community life – attending the Shule we so sorely miss, immersing ourselves in the Kol Tefillah that is only possible with a Minyan, basking in the camaraderie and dynamism of a physical group Shiur – and the list goes on. We don’t know why Hashem is doing this, and we are not looking to provide our own explanations. But there is certainly an opportunity here to harness this “gap” to rethink all the many things we have always taken for granted.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas KI SISA 5780

COVID-19. It was a meaningless jumble of letters and numbers to most of us just one month ago. By now, it has turned our lives topsy-turvy. It is starting to affect our routines in so many ways, and that seemingly includes our connection with Hashem – the way we daven, learn and fulfil Mitzvos. Or is it?


The famous story is told (here and here) of the two brothers, the famed Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk and Rabbi Zushe of Anipoli, who were thrown into a prison cell full of common criminals, for no especially good reason. Reb Elimelech began to cry when he realised he could not daven Mincha due to the toilet pail in the corner, which made the room unfit for prayer.


“Why are you crying?” asked Reb Zushe. “Is it because you are unable to daven? The same Creator who commanded us to daven also commanded us not to daven in such a room! By not davening right now, we are achieving a connection with Hashem. True, it may not be the bond we sought, but if we truly seek divine connection, we should be happy that Hashem has afforded us the opportunity to obey His law at this time, no matter in which way.”


“You are right!” exclaimed Rabbi Elimelech. Jumping up, Rabbi Elimelech took his brother’s arm and began to dance with the unbridled joy that can only derive from performing the mitzvah of not praying in an inappropriate place. When the guards realised that it was the pail in the corner that the two Jews were so excited about, they promptly ejected it from the cell. The holy brothers then prayed Minchah undisturbed …


The analogy is obvious. We may not be involving ourselves right now with the Halachos of davening in an inappropriate place, but rather, with the Halachos of doing our part in stemming the potentially serious ramifications of a worldwide pandemic. Either way, we are following the words of Hashem.


On Purim, we began the Megillah with two chapters describing the gross revelry and vulgar debauchery of Achashverosh and his henchmen. How is it even appropriate to read about such matters from the Shule Bimah? Indeed, some opinions in the Gemoro insist that these sections should be omitted from the Mitzvah entirely. Still, Halacha requires us to read it. Why? The Rebbe explains it is because these chapters contain an eternal message. Events which seem inconceivable and downright absurd when they happen are very much part of a greater Master Plan. It took the Jews of Shushan almost a decade to comprehend the ramifications; may we understand our situation must sooner.


I would like to conclude with a plea to the community to come together in a meaningful way, even if this can’t mean physical closeness. Let us increase in helping others, give more Tzedakah and say more Tehillim. If you have any concerns or constructive criticism about the current situation and our response, feel free to be directly in touch with me about it.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas TETZAVEH 5780

Quick – When did the story of Purim happen? A secular historian is likely to answer that it occurred in the fifth century BCE, while Jewish sources point to the fourth century BCE. These conflicting responses trace back to a broader dating discrepancy between Jewish and secular sources. According to secular theory, the Persian Empire – as well as the second Beis Hamikdash – existed for about 150-200 years longer than accepted by Jewish sources. This conflict has major implications, as it calls into question the accuracy of the overall Jewish narrative of that era.


How are we to address contradictions when they arise between Torah and secular sources? The Rebbe explains that this dilemma was already addressed in a Talmudic discussion regarding the Bigdei Kehunah in this week’s Parsha. The Gemoro relates that after the Romans destroyed the Second Beis Hamikdash, much of its treasures and fixtures were brought to Rome. Rabbi Eliezer said, “I saw the Tzitz (headplate) in Rome, and the words ‘Holy to G‑d’ were inscribed on it on one line.” His evidence was at odds with the Halacha that requires the inscription to be written in two lines. The Gemoro tells us that the Chachomim remained entirely unperturbed. Although they accepted that Rabbi Eliezer had seen an artefact which undoubtedly clashed with their tradition, the Chachomim deemed the problem to be not with their tradition, but with the artefact – perhaps it wasn’t authentic, perhaps it was a mistake or perhaps it was an inaccurate decoy.


From here, the Rebbe derives the correct perspective a Jew must have whenever he or she encounters a supposed contradiction between the Torah and “the facts” – be they the dead sea scrolls or the Menorah’s shape. The Rebbe explains that the problem cannot lie with the Torah, for its tradition is the Divine Truth. Rather, the problem lies with “the facts”. When one probes them more extensively, one soon realises that “the facts” are nowhere near as conclusive as he or she was led to believe. Indeed, with regards to the above-mentioned Persian dating problem, archaeologists and historians alike concede all kinds of inconsistencies in the secular historical record.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas TERUMAH 5780

It was Simchas Torah night thirty-five years ago. A massive crowd was gathered at the Rebbe’s Farbrengen, and it was shortly after midnight when the Rebbe declared, “On Simchas Torah we change the norm. Usually empty cups are filled, and this is true figuratively as well – we fill ourselves with Torah, Mitzvos and acts of holiness. However, on Simchas Torah, we must do the exact opposite – all receptacles must be emptied. Everyone, say L’chaim!” With that, the Rebbe consumed all the remaining contents of his cup and turned it upside down, holding it aloft for all to see that it was empty. The Rebbe then signalled all the Chassidim to do the same. In a matter of moments, all the thousands of bottles and cups in 770 were emptied and held upside down, as the crowd sang “Al Haselah… Vayetzu Mayim”.


This week’s Parsha describes the design of the Menorah in great detail. Amongst other features, the Menorah was adorned with twenty-two goblets. The Possuk does not depict the precise design or exact shape of the goblets. However, the Gemoro states that the goblets were akin to “Alexandrian cups,” long and narrow at the base but wide at the mouth.


One would think that these goblets faced upwards. After all, that is how we usually use cups. This is indeed the opinion of many Rishonim, and also the way that the Menorah is depicted in many an artist’s impression. Surprisingly, the Rambam’s sketch of the Menorah depicts the goblets facing down, with the narrow base at the top and the wide mouth at the bottom.


The Rebbe explains that the purpose of the Menorah was to illuminate the world outside. For this reason, the windows in the Heichal were designed to let light emanate outward instead of inward. This is also why the goblets were positioned upside down. A goblet can serve two functions; to contain and to pour. Turning a goblet upside down indicates that the emphasis is on spreading influence towards others. The purpose of the Menorah in the Beis HaMikdash was not merely to receive and contain G‑dly energy, but more importantly, to spread that light throughout the entire world.


In the above-mentioned Simchas Torah Farbrengen, the Rebbe explained that this is the Shlichus of every Chossid. Like the Menorah, our role is to serve as lamplighters. And like the Menorah, we must invert our cups, focussing on giving than on receiving. No doubt, the month of Adar invigorates us in our mission of turning ourselves uʍop ǝpısdn.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas MISHPOTIM 5780

Slavery and ear-piercing is probably not the kind of stuff one turns to for inspiration and spiritual ecstasy. But its all there in this week’s Parsha. The slave who has concluded his term of six years but does not want to leave will have his ear pierced. Why? As retribution for ignoring what he heard with his very own ear – Hashem’s declaration that “the Israelites are slaves to Me” and not to any other master.


Well, if that’s the explanation, then why not pierce the ear of every slave for having sought out another master? After all, a Jewish person is sold into slavery only if he so chooses to bail himself out of poverty, or to repay items that he stole. Both outcomes derive from his own conscious and preventable choices, so he should also have his ear pierced for having acquired another master. For that matter, any sinner should have his ear pierced for not heeding the word of Hashem! What is so unique about the slave who does not want to go free?


When people make bad choices, we can often sympathise with the circumstances that led them there, even if we disagree with their moral decisions. Australia has a long history in that regard. None of us would condone stealing, but we still feel for the convicts penalised so harshly for having committed acts of petty theft in their struggle to survive against unemployment, social injustice, and harsh living conditions. And, of course, Victoria is the state where Ned Kelly somehow rose to national prominence as the greatest folk hero of all time. In similar fashion, when a Jew sells himself out due to his dire circumstances, either by becoming a literal slave or a slave to his evil impulses, we will not write him off as one who is deaf to the word of Hashem.


However, a slave who has moved beyond the difficulties of his past, who is on the threshold of freedom, who will be able to get back up on his own two feet with the significant gifts that his owner is about to bestow upon him in accordance with the Torah’s instructions – what is his excuse? Why is he still begging to be a slave? Where is his desire to escape the past, and its associated shame and stigma? Circumstances here do not really account for his bad choice, and the only plausible explanation is that this fellow truly does not hear the word of Hashem. For that, his ear is pierced!


If you ask the International Labour Organization about modern slavery, they will likely point to undernourished workers in poor African countries or Western migrant workers who earn salaries too meagre to put a slice of bread on the table. However, the Rebbe explains that there is another dangerous form of modern slavery – the person who doesn’t understand the boundary between work and life, the one who chooses the diversions of the world even when he has run out of excuses. True, most of us must toil hard to make ends meet, and we must be on call for so much of the week that there is little time left for the things that really matter. But when we do get those little pockets of time – the weekends, Shabbos in particular, or those times at night when our clients are not expecting instant responses – what then? Do we still insist on seeking out another master, or do we carve out some time to focus on our special relationship with the true Master? 


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas Yisro 5780

To delegate or not. That is the question.


Well, not really. Usually there is no question. Especially if you’re leading a nation of three-million Jews. How could one person do it all? This was essentially Yisro’s challenge to Moshe, who in turn consulted with Hashem and received Divine Authorisation for a hierarchy of judges and mentors. Why did it take an outsider to think of such an obvious model?


The answer to this question, profound yet simple, is rooted in the power of Moshe’s presence. When the people stood before him, most of their quarrels immediately vanished; in the presence of such greatness, how could they not be but ashamed of their fights and conflicts? That is why Moshe thought to be the one judge of Israel, since most problems would automatically resolve without the time-consuming process of adjudicating them. Moshe understood that just one sentence of his, or even a mere gesture or penetrating glance, would have a far greater impact on the recipient than years of personal study. Moshe’s mere presence exalted the people around him; the sacred atmosphere he projected and the intensely emotive experiences of the divine would pervade those he interacted with, shaping them in a way that no judicial verdict possibly could.


So why did Hashem will it otherwise? Because the power of Moshe’s presence would linger for only as long as he was tangibly present. As soon as Moshe would pass away, all of his energy would no longer be palpable. Once that receded from the people’s hearts and minds, what would be next? That is why Hashem insisted on a hierarchy of delegates, charging them to hold aloft the flame of Moshe’s inspiration once it wasn’t as accessible. The ensuing system might not be as pure and glorious as its leader, nor have the majesty of his persona, but it would allow for the fulfilment of real self-actualisation and self-achievement.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas BESHALACH 5780

“The funeral of Mr Stein’s bones will take place today.”

“There will be a Kiddush this Shabbos afternoon to commemorate the Yahrtzeit of Mr Ploni’s bones.”

Have you ever heard an announcement like that? Probably not. After all, who speaks with such disrespect?


Which only magnifies the incongruency found at the beginning of

“The funeral of Mr Stein’s bones will take place today.”

“There will be a Kiddush this Shabbos afternoon to commemorate the Yahrtzeit of Mr Ploni’s bones.”

Have you ever heard an announcement like that? Probably not. After all, who speaks with such disrespect?


Which only magnifies the incongruency found at the beginning of our Parsha, where “Moshe took the bones of Yosef with him” as the Jews departed Egypt. Why didn’t the Torah frame that a bit more delicately? Such as, “Moshe took the casket of Yosef with him…” What happened to some basic respect and human dignity, especially for a Tzaddik of the stature of Yosef? In fact, there was surely a lot more remaining of Yosef than mere bones, for the body of a Tzaddik does not decompose, and furthermore, Yosef had been embalmed by the Egyptians.


The Rebbe explains that the Hebrew word for bones, Atzmos, can also mean the essence or the core. This is no coincidence; bones are what provides a person his backbone and strength. This is why the Torah used the words Atzmos, instead of a more sensitive word, so that it would also connote that the Jews took the essence of Yosef with them.


A lot could be said of Yosef. He was handsome, brilliant, industrious, successful, righteous, courageous, compassionate, regal and a born leader. But what was his essence? The answer can be found in his naming. When Rochel gave birth to Yosef after many years of childlessness, she named him Yosef declaring “Yosef Hashem Li Ben Acher – May Hashem add for me a son; another.” The Rebbe explains that Yosef had the power and dedication to inspire “another” – an outcast, a totally indifferent or even antagonistic person – to the point of literally transforming him into a dear and cherished “son” of Hashem. This was exactly the kind of fortitude that the Jews needed as they set out on a perilous journey fraught with spiritual danger through the “great and awesome desert filled with snakes, vipers and scorpions, and drought without water”.


The Rebbe clearly associates this message with Yud Shevat, the Yahrtzeit of the Frierdiker Rebbe, whose first name was Yosef. The mission of Yosef Hatzadik was also that of the Frierdiker Rebbe, and by extension, our mission as well. We also find ourselves in “deserts” devoid of Torah values, and we must strengthen ourselves with the “essence of Yosef” in order to influence everyone and everything around us, and not vice-versa.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas BO 5780

As the Jews were leaving Egypt, Hashem immediately gave them a series of Mitzvos directly connected with the Exodus, such as Korbon Pesach, the festival of Pesach, Matzah and destroying Chometz, and consecrating our firstborn. Sandwiched between all those Mitzvos is one which seems to stick out like a sore thumb – Tefillin! True, the Mitzvah of Tefillin includes a commemoration of Yetzias Mitzrayim in the first two Parshiyos. However, there are many other Mitzvos that include a commemoration of Yetzias Mitzrayim – for example, Shabbos, Sukkos and Tzitzis. If so, why did Hashem speak specifically of Tefillin on the very threshold of redemption?

In fact, if we think about it, the Mitzvah of Tefillin seems rushed and premature. It is well known that Tefillin contains four sections of the Torah. The first two are taken from this week’s Parsha, whereas the last two sections are from Parshas Vaeschanan and Ekev respectively, which was conveyed to Moshe only forty years later. This means that for the forty years the Jews sojourned in the desert, their Tefillin contained only two out of the four Parshiyos. Given that the Jews could in any case not fulfil the Mitzvah of Tefillin in entirety for the first forty years, why did Hashem rush the command to put it on?

We all know that Tefillin affords protection from the enemy. However, the Rebbe notes a dichotomy between the first two sections of Tefillin and the last two. The first two sections focus on the Exodus – a victory which the Jews did not need to fight for. The Jews were unarmed and overwhelmingly outnumbered, yet they marched out to freedom without resorting to an iota of violence against the mighty Egyptians. This demonstrates how Tefillin empowers us to win without a fight. However, the last two sections of Tefillin focus on Mesiras Nefesh – sacrificing one’s very life for Hashem. This implies that we cannot achieve victory without doing our part. We must be willing to enter the fray, to fight, and only then will Hashem guarantee success.

This explains why Hashem initially – and immediately – instructed the Jews to put on a Tefillin of two Parshiyos, in order that the Exodus culminate in an immediate and miraculous conquest of Eretz Yisroel, one for which the Jews would not need to fight. Hashem “rushed” – so to speak – a Tefillin of only two sections, as this would end exile forever. However, once the Jews sinned and no longer had the merit, they needed the extra two Parshiyos, to empower them with the Mesiras Nefesh they would need to stand up to the fight.

Does that mean we are worse off? Not at all. Chassidus explains that had the Jews conquered Eretz Yisroel without a battle, the enemy would not have been conquered – they would have simply vanished. Ultimately, the goal is not to eliminate worldlines, but to conquer and harness it in serving Hashem.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VOERA 5780

Mere semantics. That’s how it seems at the end of this Parsha when Rashi provides two competing explanations for how the hail ended so abruptly. According to the first approach, the airborne hailstones simply stopped mid-flight, and there they remained, suspended mid-air. According to the second approach, the hailstones dissipated and simply disappeared. Now why does all this matter?

The Rebbe points out that something unique transpired as a result of the hail. For the very first time, Pharaoh expressed remorse over his wicked ways. “I have sinned this time. Hashem is the righteous One, and I and my people are the guilty ones. Entreat Hashem, and let it be enough of His thunder and hail, and I will let you go, and you shall not continue to stand.” Pharaoh’s confession exhibited the two main ingredients of Teshuvah – his first sentence articulated regret over the past and his second sentence conveyed resolve to improve the future.

In light of this, we can understand that the two approaches of Rashi speak volumes about the power of Teshuvah. According to the first approach, the negative consequences of sin – the hailstones – are stopped in their tracks by Teshuvah, but they still remain very much in existence. However, according to the second approach, Teshuvah causes the negative consequences of sin to vanish into the thin air, as if they never existed.

So which one is it? Does Teshuvah merely halt the negative outcomes of sin, or does it completely remove all traces of it? Rashi presents us two approaches, because the jury is out when it comes to the Teshuvah of a sinner such as Pharaoh. However, all agree that the Teshuvah of a Jew has the power to change not only the future, but the past as well. Ultimately, when sin serves as the catalyst for deep remorse and improvement, it emerges in retrospect that the sin paved the way for goodness.

Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas SHEMOS 5780

We all know the story. Moshe kills an Egyptian taskmaster for his heavy-handed treatment of a Jew. The next day, Moshe realises that two of his fellow Jews, Dasan and Aviram, cannot be trusted to keep this information secret. Moshe is afraid. And indeed, His fears are not for naught – Dasan and Aviram betray Moshe. They are so successful that Pharaoh himself gives the orders for Moshe to be seized and executed. Moshe is almost killed were it not for a completely miraculous escape.

The Rebbe asks an insightful question: The stories recounted in the Torah generally focus on what their protagonists said and did, but rarely does it describe their feelings, unless those feelings led to some sort of practical outcome. If so, why does the Torah tell us that Moshe was afraid, it those fears do not seem to have manifested in anything practical?

The Rebbe explains that Moshe’s ordeal transpired only because he was afraid. His capture by the Egyptians, his narrow escape from death, his flight from Egypt, his decades-long misery in the land of Midian – all his trials and tribulations transpired only and exclusively because he had been afraid. Had he not allowed himself to be frightened of Dasan and Aviram, instead of having complete trust in Hashem that things would turn out well, their attempts to betray him would have led nowhere. Thus, Moshe’s feelings most certainly led to a practical outcome. His feelings shaped the trajectory of his life for decades to come – a trajectory that could have been entirely avoided.

The Rebbe explains that this is the meaning of the adage: “Tracht gut vet zein gut” — Think good and it will be good. Tracht Gut is not merely good psychology for surviving turbulent times as they pass us by. Neither does it mean to pass the buck and sit back and stand idly by, waiting for Hashem to make things right. Rather, Tracht Gut means to take initiative and really work on oneself to the point where one literally feels absolute assurance and conviction that there will be a positive outcome. Such an attitude is itself the conduit to draw down Hashem’s blessings for the positive results to happen. Think good, because absolute faith in Hashem is the very thing needed to make it good.

Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VAYECHI 5780

Despite being the firstborn, Reuven loses the monarchy in this week’s Parsha, as punishment for rearranging his father's bed. It is bestowed upon Yehudah instead, as a reward for saving Yosef's life, as well as for confessing his own indiscretion. Now, let's size up their actions:


1. Both Reuven and Yehudah shielded Yosef from certain death, albeit in their own way. Reuven had Yosef thrown into a snake-infested pit in order to buy time and figure out a way to save Yosef. Yehudah released Yosef from the deadly pit in order to make a quick buck. Yet, Reuven loses the blessing of royalty to Yehudah!


2. Both Reuven and Yehudah admitted their respective indiscretions, albeit in their own way. Reuven sincerely devoted himself to fasting and wearing sackcloth for over nine years in order to atone for his sin. Yehudah made a one-off admission of guilt, and only because the alternative meant Tamar's death. Yet, Reuven loses the blessing of royalty to Yehudah!


As it happens, Yehudah's deeds are indeed superior, because of what they meant for others. Reuven's actions were exceedingly lofty, but neither his fasts and sackcloth nor his transferring Yosef "out of the frying pan and into the fire" yielded tangible benefit for anyone else. On the other hand, Yehudah's actions saved both Yosef and Tamar from certain death and paved the way for a happy ending. His intentions may have been far from noble, yet the overall contribution to society was great. Prioritizing one's devotion towards the mundane affairs of others over one's lofty preoccupation with self – that is the trait of leadership 


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VAYIGASH 5780

What was the greater miracle, Chanukah or Didan Notzach? Answer: Didan Notzach. On Chanukah, they had enough oil for one day, yet it lasted eight days. On Didan Notzach, they had enough Mashke for a year, yet it lasted just one day!


I heard this witty aphorism from my grandfather, Reb Mendel Marozov a”h. However, what many people may not know is the reason for the plentiful Mashke. The Didan Notzach saga stretched for well over a year, and while most Chassidim occupied themselves with saying Tehillim, fasting and attending the courtroom, there was one particular Bochur who was preoccupied with something else. In his mind, it was not even a question of who would emerge victorious. As far as he was concerned, victory was guaranteed! His sole concern was whether there would be enough Mashke instantly available when the verdict would be announced. So, for many months, he focussed on building a great supply of Mashke, which indeed came to good use on Hey Teves.


Interestingly, this episode has a parallel in this week’s Parsha. After reuniting with his brothers, Yosef sent them off with a gift for his father – aged wine. What made Yosef think that his father would appreciate aged wine? The Rebbe points out that for all the years that Yaakov and Yosef were separated, neither of them drank wine. By sending his father wine, Yosef was telling him, “Although I had no use for wine during the 22 years that we were separated, I still invested myself in aging my own Kosher batch. I never gave up hope of reuniting and I never despaired. Our anticipated reunion felt so tangible and imminent to me, that I constantly maintained by own special vintage to celebrate the day when we would drink wine again.”


Of course, the main message here is not about drinking wine or Mashke. Rather, as the Rebbe teaches, we must cultivate a similar attitude to the coming of Moshiach. It is not enough to merely await his speedy arrival. Rather, his coming must feel so imminent and tangible that we constantly prepare in the best way possible.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas MIKETZ 5780

Chanukah celebrates two miracles: The victory of a greatly outnumbered and ill-equipped army of Jews over the mighty Greek army, and also, the eight-day kindling of the Menorah fuelled with a quantity of oil supposed to last for only one day.


The need for the first miracle is obvious. Without a victory, the Jews would have continued to be persecuted and eventually stamped out. The need for the second miracle is not as clear: Halacha states that impure oil is acceptable for the Menorah when no pure oil is available. If so, for what purpose did Hashem make the pure oil burn for eight days?


Chanukah comes from the word chinuch – "inauguration." When the Beis Hamikdash was inaugurating after it was defiled by the Greeks, Hashem suspended the laws of nature, because an inauguration must proceed without any loophole – even a legally acceptable one.


The same is true of all inaugurations, including the most significant of all – the education of our children. As we proceed through life, a loophole here or there may be in order, for the world we live in and the situations it presents us are far from ideal. However, what is tolerable for a mature tree may spell disaster for a little seed. When it comes to the inauguration of our little seedlings, our children, we must do all we can to avoid any and every loophole – even if it means suspending the laws of nature.


Good Shabbos and Freilichen Chanukah.


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VAYEISHEV 5780

There is an innocuous Rashi in this week’s Parsha, seemingly so trivial that most of us probably zoom over it without much thought. Rashi wonders why our Parsha describes Yehudah’s journey to the city of Timnas as an ascent, whereas the mighty Shimshon’s journey to Timnas is portrayed as a descent. Rashi answers that Timnas was situated in the middle of a slope, and whether one goes up or down to reach it will depend on the side he approaches it from. But isn’t the answer to the question kind of obvious? Why does Rashi make a question of it in the first place? The Rebbe addresses this through a lesson about town-planning, at least of ancient cities:


Ancient cities were commonly situated in valleys and plains, to ensure ease of access for construction supplies, and for convenient trade and commerce. However, this benefit was also the city’s potential downfall – ease of access made the city more vulnerable to enemy invasion. Another alternative was to build a city on a mountain peak. The difficult terrain would make it hard to transport construction supplies, and once the city was built, trade and commerce would be strenuous and expensive. Even so, the difficulty of access was also its strength – the city was well protected from enemy invasion.


However, to build a city midway up the mountain? To do so would contain all the disadvantages and none of the advantages. The city would be hard to supply from below, but also difficult to defend from above. This is why it is unexpected for an ancient city to be situated on a slope, and when faced with the contradiction between Yehudah and Shimshon, one would seek other answers. That is why Rashi needed to clarify that, farfetched as it may sound, Timnas was indeed built on the slope.


What is the enduring lesson for us? The middle of the slope carries much risk and little benefit. So it is with a man’s service of Hashem, which is likened to ascending a mountain. A climber knows that he must ascend steadily upwards without pause; stopping mid-way would only increase the chance of losing his footing and falling. Similarly, in ascending the “mountain of Hashem”, constant upward movement is vital – not only for the purpose of going higher, but also to ensure that one does not fall lower. This is also the message of the Chanukah lights – “we ascend in matters of holiness and do not descend.” The two parts of this principle are interdependent. Only by going up does one ensure that he is not falling down. 


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VAYISHLACH 5780

Because Yaakov was left with an injured thigh, none of us eat the Gid Hanoshe to this very day. Which raises a lot of fascinating questions: 1) Why is the wrestling match such an important episode in Jewish history that it deserves an eternal commemoration? 2) Once we are commemorating it already, why through the Gid Hanoshe, which is seemingly just a trivial detail in the bigger story? 3) The Gid Hanoshe is not even palatable – it is a scrawny sinew after all, and most of us would not be very interested in eating it regardless. If so, why commemorate by abstaining from a trivial part of the animal that most of us would essentially overlook regardless?


The Rebbe explains this by elaborating on two types of caring. More often than not, we care about something only because it is useful to us. For such matters, the degree of our care is directly in line with its importance to us. For example, a person cares about his car because it gets him places. Accordingly, he will care about the engine more than its cosmetic appearance, and if the car were to require repairs, he would prioritise those aspects which are more important to the car’s function.


However, another type of caring is not attributable to how useful something is, but rather, by virtue of it literally being part of us. In such cases, we don’t pay much attention to importance and function, and we don’t inquire whether are fingers are more important to us than are toes. Our care and concern for each body part goes beyond its usefulness; we care about it because it is part of us.


The fight between Esav’s angel and Yaakov was not a mere wrestle, but a dispute about the degree that Hashem cares for us and that we care for Hashem. The gentiles tell the Jews, “You are not more unique than the rest of creation. Hashem created everything for a purpose, and each of these things is only as important as its purpose, no more! You are no different; you are a nation like all others. Why do you act like every little detail matters?” Yet, the truth is that we are indeed more unique than the rest of creation. Hashem’s care for us, and our care for Him, goes beyond “usefulness”. When we are inherently connected, every little thing matters in our relationship with Hashem.


This explanation addresses all the questions above: This wrestling match is indeed a crucial moment in Jewish history, deserving of eternal commemoration, for it defines the relationship between Hashem and us. Therefore, we purposely commemorate it with a trivial detail, and something which is essentially tasteless, because this captures the spirit of Yaakov’s response – even the most trivial and tasteless details of Torah and Mitzvos is of pivotal importance, because when something is part of us, we care about all of the details equally.


Let us reflect on our own lives! If we create “levels” in our observance of Yiddishkeit, where we prioritise what we feel is “important” but pay less attention to things that are “less important”, then we are basically relegating our relationship with Hashem to a transactional one. If we truly believe that we have an inherent connection with Hashem, then we will pay our fullest attention to every aspect of our connection, be it big or small.


Good Shabbos,


Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas VAYETZEI 5780

Leah named her fourth child Yehudah, declaring, "This time, I will thank Hashem!” At that point, she stopped bearing children. A number of commentaries (Ibn Ezra, Tur) explain that this was a simple case of cause and effect: Leah thanked Hashem for what she had, but did not ask for more, and that is why Hashem closed her womb. As important as it is to thank Hashem for all one’s prior achievements, one must remain focussed on the future, and never be satisfied when there is still so much more to achieve.


This very idea helps explain Rochel’s bewildering response upon giving birth to Yosef, “Hashem has taken away my shame.” The Midrash explains her intent as follows: As long as a woman has no child, she has no one to blame for her faults. As soon as she has a child, she blames him. “Who broke this dish?” “The child!” “Who ate these figs?” “The child!”


At face value, this seems extremely perplexing – was this the extent of Rochel’s desire for a child? The Nezer Hakodesh explains that Rochel wanted to thank Hashem, but in a way that would make it abundantly clear that she sought more and more children. That is why she thanked Hashem for having children who break things, for the blame game works only with young children and not grownups. She was thereby saying, “Thank you Hashem for Yosef, but please ensure that I have another little child by the time he grows up!” In this sense, Rochel’s declaration was the exact opposite of Leah’s: At the very moment Rochel thanked Hashem, she found a way to emphasise that she wanted more and more.


The lesson we derive is that being “happy with our lot’ applies only to mundane matters. When it comes to spiritual pursuits, we must always remain fixated on achieving more and more. As important as it is for our achievements to be recognised, we must remain focussed on the tasks that still lie ahead of us.


Nevertheless, the Rebbe explains the deeper – and positive – significance of Leah’s ceasing to have children: During Golus, we constantly advance from one achievement to the next, but each triumph is attained only through the pain of “pregnancy” and “childbirth”. When Moshiach comes, we will no longer undergo the hardship associated with fluctuation, for we will have already reached the summit. At that point, we will “cease to have children”, and instead enjoy the fruits of our hard work, in peace and tranquillity. May it happen speedily in our times.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas TOLDOS 5780

The Midrash teaches that the opening phrase of this week’s Parsha, “Toldos Yitzchok” (descendants of Yitzchok), refers not to the pious Yaakov, but rather, to the wicked Esav. In other words, the Midrash maintains that Yitzchok’s legacy is manifest in Esav. This explains why Esav’s head ultimately came to be buried together with his father Yitzchok, even if in less than glorious circumstances. What are we supposed to make of this Midrash?


One of the main differences between Avraham and Yitzchok was the way in which they related to people. Avraham inspired all who came within his presence, lifting them to his level. However, the inspiration faded as soon as they left Avraham’s presence, because the people themselves had done nothing to deserve it. As a case in point, nothing is known of the fate of Avraham’s 75,000 followers; they literally faded away into oblivion.


In contrast, Yitzchok didn’t try to inspire people. Rather, as a well-digger, he drilled deep into the minds and souls of all whom he met, and then showed them what they could achieve on their own. He didn’t seek to raise anyone to his own lofty level, and instead preferred to see them develop and improve on their own. The people he interacted with may have not felt the same kind of spiritual majesty that Avrohom inspired. Nevertheless, their achievements lasted, because it was their own efforts that bore them.


Yitzchok saw every person for who he or she was. He didn’t write anyone off, and he encouraged them to achieve what they could on their own terms. Thus, Yitzchok’s legacy is indeed realised in Esav, and Esav’s “head” – the very best of his persona – remains eternally united with Yitzchok.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas Emor 2018

 Published 3rd May 2018

The Rebbe does something fascinating and wholly unique with the name of this week’s Parsha, “Emor” which means “Speak!” Most of us would just see it as a single word part of the broader sentence, where it has meaning in context – Hashem is instructing Moshe to “speak” to the Kohanim about their entitlements and obligations. But the Rebbe explains that since the word Emor is the title of the Parsha, it must have a self-contained meaning of its own. When viewed in this light, the word Emor conveys a general directive: “Speak!”

Yet, it is well worth noting that many statements of our sages are clearly not in favour of constant yacking and prattling. “Say little but do much” is a classic, and so is “The best thing for a person is silence”. Malicious speech and slander is certainly taboo, whereas speaking words of Torah and Tefillah is a must-do. If so, what is Emor innovating? To speak about what? When? Why? And, to whom?

The Rebbe explains that there is tremendous power in praising and speaking well of people. If you truly pay attention to your peer, you will see the abundant positive within, be it his gifts, talents or potential. When you do see it, be sure to express it. For, it is one thing to notice it. It is entirely another thing to disclose it. The favourable words you share will awaken a desire in your peer to live up to your kind belief in him. Your words will ultimately bring his positive potential to the fore. This is the type of speech that Emor connotes. Speak positively about another and watch your words have its desired impact

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches

Parshas Tazria Metzorah 2018

 Published 26th April 2018

Story time: The heavenly academy debated a certain type of questionable leprosy. Hakadosh Boruch Hu said it was pure, but all the other sages declared it impure. To decide the dispute, they sent the Angel of Death to summon Rabbah, due to his singular expertise in the laws of leprosy ("Yochid B'Negaim"). As Rabbah's soul departed, he pronounced, "It is pure; it is pure."

This story seems puzzling. If Hashem declared the leprosy to be pure, who were the sages to say otherwise? And, if they dared reject the opinion of Hashem, what made the words of Rabbah superior? Furthermore, how are we to explain the difference between Hashem and Rabbah – Hashem said "it is pure" (once); yet Rabbah said "it is pure, it is pure" (twice).

The Rebbe explains that when one confronts suspicious circumstances, his reaction will reflect where he himself stands:

1.    A very physical and materialistic being will immediately jump to conclusions and assume the worst; he will tell you that where there is smoke there is fire. For, from his perspective, the physical reality looms large, of which evil is unfortunately a very active part. Thus, the Sages of the heavenly academy, all souls who once lived this physical world and connected with it, declared the suspected leprosy to be impure. [This parallels Memale Kol Almin; the level of G-dliness which interacts with our world.]

2.    A more spiritual being will more easily give the benefit of the doubt. This is because he transcends the physicality of the world, and for him, evil is not such a reality. Thus, the level of Hakadosh Boruch Hu, synonymous with Sovev, gives the benefit of the doubt and assumes the suspected leprosy to be pure. Nevertheless, this is declared only once, without emphasis, because one can still fathom the other point of view, even if one does not agree with it. [This parallels Sovev Kol Almin; the level of G-dliness which transcends our world.]

3.    But then you have someone who is completely connected with Hashem's essence, and nothing exists outside of Hashem's goodness. When he encounters suspected leprosy, not only does he regard it as pure, but he cannot fathom any other possibility. Thus, Rabbah emphatically declares twice that it is pure, to indicate that it cannot be any other way. This is why Rabbah is called "Yochid B'Negaim", because for him, the level of "Yochid" (the Singularity of Hashem) was palpable even in an area as seemingly negative as Negaim (leprosy). [This parallels the level of Azmus; the very Essence of Hashem.]

This incisive explanation gives us a lot to think about. But one simple message is that the conclusions we draw about the people and situations around us merely reflect where we stand. Our judgement often says more about us than them. When it comes to the way we look at our fellow Jews, we should all strive to be like Rabbah.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches



Thu, 28 January 2021 15 Shevat 5781