“Have you ever been disappointed by God?”

I thought for a moment about the question, looking at the group of secular Israeli high school students who had just listened to my story of how I became religious. How could I help them understand the complexity of a Jew’s relationship with God, in prayer and in life? Then I remembered an idea I’d heard from Rabbi Gershenfeld on Parshas Vayeira about the very first “Amidah” (standing prayer) in history: a prayer that God rejected. It’s an idea that not only reframes how we’re meant to relate to our prayers, but also can fill every single one of us with optimism and confidence each time we engage in meaningful dialogue with our Creator.

The World’s First Amidah

The heart of every Jewish prayer service is the Amidah, which literally translates to standing before God. We take three steps back, removing ourselves from the distractions and entanglements of the physical world, then take three steps forward to enter God’s domain, standing before the King of Kings, asking Him for all our needs. What is the source for the Amidah? “Avraham arose early in the morning to the place where he had stood” (Bereishis 19:27). The Gemara (Berachos 26b) learns that this “standing” of Avraham was his tefilla (prayer), and from it, the Sages instituted the Shacharis (morning) prayer. But if we look at the tefilla that Avraham prayed there, we might become disheartened. Because what happened to the world’s first Amidah?

It got flat out rejected.

Here’s the background: God reveals to Avraham His plan to destroy Sodom. Avraham, the “father of many nations,"1 begs God to spare the city if there are 50 righteous people therein. God accedes, yet Avraham continues to push his case, asking for mercy even if there are only 45. God relents, and Avraham pushes further, dropping the cap to 40, then 30, then 20, and finally, 10. Each time, God gives in to Avraham’s plea, stretching His mercy to its maximum. But Sodom didn’t have ten. The next morning, when Avraham returns for his Amidah in that very place where he prayed the day before,2 he stares out over a smoldering wreckage.

And this is where our Sages learned our daily morning prayer! How could that be?! What a depressing message!

Every Prayer Is Answered

We missed something. A small detail. One that looks like a rounding error next to an entire city wiped off the map. Yes, everyone else in Sodom died, but Lot and his two daughters escaped. Rashi says Lot was saved only in Avraham’s merit (19:17). And what was Avraham doing the day before? Praying for Sodom.

Okay, so we have a survivor. Big deal. Is that the message God wants us to take away about our prayers? That we’ll get a small fraction of what we ask for? That our prayers barely matter compared to the emotion and effort we put behind them?

No. That’s not the message. Because let’s look at Lot’s descendants. Lot’s daughters, believing God had destroyed the world along with Sodom,3 ply their father with wine, and arouse him to consort with them while in a drunken stupor. The elder daughter has a son and names him Moav. Moav grows into a nation, and many generations later, a young Moabite princess named Rus (Ruth)4 marries into a Jewish family. Her Jewish husband dies, yet she converts and follows her mother-in-law Naomi with complete trust into an unknown world. The leader of the generation, Boaz,5 admires this heroic act of dedication in young Rus, and they marry, bearing a son, Oved, who fathers Yishai, who fathers King David. And we know that the bloodline of King David contains the seed of the ultimate redemption: Mashiach (the Messiah).

When we shift our gaze away from the smoldering wreckage of Sodom, we realize that though God refused Avraham’s prayer to save Sodom, He used that prayer to sow the seeds of the ultimate salvation.

Every prayer is answered. We just don’t always understand how. The Gemara says it outright: “Whoever prays at length, his prayer does not return empty” (Berachos 32b).

God Never Lets Us Down

That’s what I wanted those students to understand. God answers our prayers. Just rarely the way we expect. I’ve seen it many times, but never more clearly than in the spring of 2021.

On April 15th, 2021, three months after we started dating, my new fiancée called and ended our engagement. After a sleepless night, I drove out to Sugarloaf Mountain near our yeshiva in farm country Maryland and sprinted up the trail. Lungs burning, legs pumping, heart aching, I reached the summit. I stood on a rock outcrop overlooking the fields below and cried out to Hashem, “Why?!”

Like Avraham the morning after his prayer, I stood on a high place, mourning the smoldering wreckage of what I thought was my future.

That heartbreak sent me back to Jerusalem for the best eight months of learning in my life, where I began writing the essays that became my book. On April 1st, 2022, I flew back to America. Two days later, my phone rang with the call that led me to my wife. Had I not gone through that breakup, I never would have become the man she needed.

This week, let’s use the story of Avraham’s “failed” tefilla to bring a new sense of optimism into the requests we make of God. Whether you daven three times a day or haven’t prayed in years, take Avraham’s model. Once a day, in your formal prayer or in your own words, ask God for one big thing, in any language. It can be for yourself, your family, or our world. As you take leave of your prayer, feel a sense of calm confidence. Though your request might not be answered in the way you imagine, God will not let you down.

From destruction, redemption is born.6 From every “no,” God is preparing us for a greater “yes.”

Shabbat Shalom!
Avraham

For my long-standing fans, I wasn’t able to draft a new one this week. God willing next!

Is our world just a product of random events or an intricate palace crafted by a Master Builder? It’s hard not to recognize the impossible ingenuity of the design, yet why would such a beautifully crafted world have so much chaos and confusion? This very question - and more importantly, the willingness to ask it - marked the beginning of Jewish history.

Parshas Lech Lecha begins with the famous line: "And God said to Avram1, 'Lech lecha - Go for yourself - from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father's house to the land that I will show you'" (Bereishis 18:1).2 This stirring directive launches Avraham's journey, but what prompted his divine revelation? What did Avraham do to merit this call? We find the answers in a compelling Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 39) that illuminates this pivotal moment:

Rabbi Yitzchak said... This may be compared to a man who was traveling from place to place when he saw a palace on fire. He said, "Is it possible that this palace lacks a manhig (caretaker)?" The master of the palace looked at him and said to him, "I am the baal (master)." This was what occurred with our forefather, Avraham, who said, "Is it possible that this universe lacks a manhig?," the Holy Blessed One looked at him and said to him, "I am the Baal of the Universe... Let the King be aroused by your beauty..." Hence, God said to Avram, "Lech Lecha..."3

This Midrash brims with questions, metaphor, and mystery. Each detail carries profound implications for our lives. Let's explore five crucial questions that unlock its deeper meaning:

1. The Relentless Pursuit of Truth

Question: Why is Avraham compared to a man who was traveling from place to place?

The Rambam tells us that Avraham grew up with idolatrous parents and experimented with their religious practices, yet his heart questioned and sought the true explanation for the nature of the universe. God only revealed Himself after Avraham demonstrated his relentless pursuit of truth.

Takeaway: We must be uncompromising in our search for truth and spirituality if we hope to encounter God in our lives. Like Avraham, spiritual growth requires active seeking, not passive acceptance.

2. The World Aflame

Question: Why is the universe compared to a palace that's on fire?

A palace suggests grandeur and meticulous design. Avraham realized that a world so intricate and magnificent could not come about by chance; there must be a Creator. Furthermore, by calling the universe a palace, we see that Avraham recognized the universe’s inherent potential for goodness. But Avraham also recognized that this magnificent “palace” was ablaze; he understood that something was deeply wrong with the universe that needed repair.

Takeaway: To fix our world, we must first appreciate its divine design and potential. Yet we cannot ignore its imperfections - the "fires" that threaten to consume it. Change begins with this dual awareness of beauty and brokenness.

3. The Call to Leadership

Question: Avraham asks "Who is the manhig (caretaker)?" - God responds "I am the baal (Master)." If God isn't the manhig, who is?

Avraham reacts to seeing the problems of the world by throwing up his handsand asking, “Who is in charge? Why isn’t he fixing anything?” God responds to Avraham, “I’m not the manhig—I’m the baal!” The implication: “You are the manhig! It’s your job to fix the world! That’s what I created you for! Get off the sidelines and get in the game!”

Takeaway: When we see problems in our world, we often look to the people in charge of our governments, institutions, or even to God Himself and ask, “Why isn’t anyone fixing this?” God’s response to Avraham teaches us that no one is coming to solve our problems. We are the caretakers He appointed. The responsibility is ours.

4. Beauty in Action

Question: How do we understand the end of the Midrash: "Let the King be aroused by your beauty"?

The Kesef Mishnah, one of the commentaries on the Rambam, reveals what made Avraham truly beautiful in God’s eyes. While figures like Adam and Noach believed in God, they did not proactively reach out to share their faith with others. Avraham, by contrast, understood that recognizing God meant taking responsibility for His world. When God challenged him to manifest his beauty, Avraham responded by dedicating his life to bringing Divine awareness to others, actively working to extinguish the fires threatening God’s palace. This transformation from passive believer to active partner in repairing the world was the beauty God encouraged in Avraham.

Takeaway: Our true beauty emerges when we accept our role as the caretakers of the world and strive to put out the fires that threaten to burn it to the ground.

5. Breaking Free

Question: How does this interaction lead God to tell Avraham, "Lech Lecha"?

Though Avraham emerged as the sole monotheist amid a world of idolatry, his environment still exerted a powerful influence against spiritual progress. His father manufactured idols, the local ruler (Nimrod) threatened his life, and his society embraced moral corruption. To fulfill his mission, Avraham had to break free from these limiting patterns. Therefore, God commanded him, “Lech lecha…—Go from your land, your birthplace, and your father’s home.” Leave behind the limitations of your past to fulfill your destiny!

Takeaway: Growth often requires us to leave our comfort zones, whether physical, intellectual, or spiritual. We may need to change our environment, challenge our assumptions, or even distance ourselves from negative people to achieve our fullest potential.

Your Call to Action

Inspired by Avraham's revelation, I challenge you to undertake the following three steps:

1. See the Beauty: Take a moment to appreciate the world's awesome design and potential.

2. Recognize the Fire: Identify the areas that need repair—the “fires” that must be extinguished. It might be a friend drifting away from Judaism, a community need going unmet, or a global injustice that keeps you up at night.

3. Take Responsibility: Choose one "fire" that makes you burn the most. Instead of feeling overwhelmed or helpless, outline three concrete actions you can take this week to begin making a difference.

Remember: God is waiting for each of us to recognize the fires consuming our world, and step up as its caretakers. The world needs YOUR unique contribution.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

Based on a graduate-level class given by my Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Gershenfeld, on the very first verses of the parsha

Our Sages teach that “whoever says something in the name of the one who said it brings redemption to the world” (Megillah 15a). In my last email, I forgot to do exactly that. So let me introduce you to the rabbi behind this week’s essay, and many more to come this year.

On the first night of Rosh Hashana during my first year married in Israel, my brother-in-law brought me to daven at Yeshivas Toras Chaim. When I walked in, Rabbi Chanina Geisler was already halfway through his drasha. Nonetheless, I was captivated by his eloquence, wit, and sharp insight into Torah and human character.

After the holiday, I tried finding his talks online. Nothing.

A few years later, I mentioned in passing to a friend that I’d searched for his shiurim and come up empty. My friend added me to a WhatsApp group, and suddenly I was getting five to seven shiurim a week on the parsha and the upcoming holidays.

Those shiurim have given me a whole new window into Torah. Rabbi Geisler brings a deep emphasis on Chassidus, especially the Sfas Emes. He’s also a talmid of Rav Moshe Shapiro zt”l, the primary rebbe of many of the rabbis who shaped me, including Rabbi Beryl Gershenfeld, Rabbi Aharon Lopiansky, and Rabbi Akiva Tatz. Listening to him feels like discovering a new room in a house I already call home.

Expect to see his ideas a lot in my essays this year. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have!

Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Avi

Who are you? A name? A body? Your job? Your career? Your venture? Your success? What is your true identity? When you pass on from this world, what will you take with you?

Parshas Noach opens with a surprising answer, one that teaches us a critical lesson about our identity, and what we need to prioritize while we’re here on earth.

Giving Birth to Our Deeds

“These are the offspring of Noach; Noach was a righteous man, perfect in his generation; Noach walked with God” (Bereishis 6:9).

Wait, what happened to Noach’s offspring? “Don’t worry,” you’ll say. “They’re in the next line!” But still, is this a typo? Why does the Torah pause to wax poetic on Noach’s righteousness instead of telling us the names of his offspring? If the Torah wants to tell us about his offspring, the line should read, “These are the offspring of Noach: Shem, Cham, and Yefes!”

Instead, we have to wait a full verse to meet them: “Noach begot three sons: Shem, Cham, and Yefes” (Bereishis 6:10).

Rashi, our favorite medieval commentator, explains the detour: “To teach you that the essential progeny of tzaddikim (the righteous) are their good deeds.”1

It sounds profound, but think about it for a second. Why are the essential progeny of tzaddikim their good deeds? Why not their children? Rashi doesn’t seem to make any sense!

Our Most Essential Offspring

At 3:30 PM on Friday, June 28th, 2024, my first child emerged into the world. While the doctors frantically handled minor post-birth complications, I timidly walked over to the tiny baby, covered in meconium, just beginning to grasp her place here on planet earth. I stared in wonder at the masterpiece of Divine design that just moments before had been a bump in my wife’s stomach. Sure, my wife had endured miserable months of nausea, bed rest, and the trauma of childbirth. But could either of us take even an ounce of credit for this perfection?

Even now, with the job of raising Sarah in our hands, we don’t determine her core character traits, her natural abilities, or most of the experiences she’ll face. We partner with God in creating our children, but He’s the senior partner. Most of the credit goes to Him.

So if not our children, what can we call our essential offspring?

The only option closer to us than our children is ourselves. But which part of ourselves? We all enter the world with a given set of circumstances: parents, upbringing, genetics. Those are the presets of our lives. Even more than our children, they’re out of our control, completely God-given.

But at age 13 for boys and 12 for girls, God begins to hold us accountable for our free-will decisions. That’s what we’re really celebrating at a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. Free will is far more than just another feature of mankind. It’s our essential feature. Here lies the great gift of man: the ability to create ourselves. That’s what it means to be “made in God’s image.”2 Within our universe, we know of only two beings with true creative potential: God, and man through his choices.3 Through free will, we can create ourselves to be either a shining beacon of righteousness, greater than the angels, or a maniacal savage, lower than the animals. Much more than our name, stature, profession, or upbringing, our free-will choices define who we are.

And this idea is the profundity in Rashi’s answer: our essential offspring are our deeds. Our deeds are ours and ours alone. On these, we can truly take ownership.4 In the words of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, “The first product of a man is his own character.”5 Nothing defines us more than who we create ourselves to be.

And the first example of someone who truly grasped the power of his free will was Noach.

Noach, You Are “The One”

The verse tells us, “These are the offspring of Noach: Noach.” The first of Noach’s offspring, the essence of his offspring, was himself.6 His deeds. His free-will decisions. His generation was so corrupted by selfishness, immorality, and theft that God wiped them from the face of the earth in a flood.7 Yet Noach remained rooted in righteousness. Yes, he had three sons who went on to populate the world. But his greatest, most essential product was “Noach, ish tzaddik, tamim b’dorosav”: Noach, a righteous man, perfect in a generation of utter lawlessness and sin.8

But Noach’s story goes even deeper. The Sfas Emes, the great Chassidic master of the late 1800s, shows that everything we’ve said about one person is true of the entire world.

Our parsha isn’t the first time the Torah says, “These are the offspring.” Back at the beginning of Bereishis, we read, “These are the offspring of Heaven and Earth” (Bereishis 2:4). Our Sages teach that the word “eleh” (these) cancels whatever came before it: these, as opposed to those.9 So, the Sfas Emes explains, when the Torah announces, “These are the offspring of Noach,” it’s telling us something radical. The offspring of Heaven and Earth are out. The offspring of Noach are in.

Why? Because “the offspring of Heaven and Earth” means a world run only according to the laws of nature. God knew from the start that it would collapse in the flood, but He built it anyway, teaching us that, left to his instincts, man will corrupt himself entirely. Then, God wiped away the world of nature and rebuilt it on the strength of one tzaddik, bringing to life the famous words of Shlomo HaMelech (King Solomon): “A tzaddik is the foundation of the world” (Mishlei 10:25). The world was never meant to run on autopilot. It was built for man to lead, through his choices.10

Noach didn’t only create Noach. His actions created a whole new world. How great are the deeds of mankind!11

Creating the Essence of Your Life

Free-will choices aren’t a bonus. The whole world stands on them. And through them, we create our essence, for eternity.

This week, discover what kind of offspring you’ve been creating. Grab a piece of paper and draw a line down the middle. On the left, write your presets: your talents, your looks, your family, your natural temperament. On the right, write your choices: the habits you built, the bold decisions you’ve made, the mitzvos you’ve taken on.

Then do three things:

1. Thank God for your presets.

2. Recognize where you’ve chosen well.

3. Pick one area where you can choose better, and take one specific action to improve it.

Your name, your body, your job: you’ll leave them all behind. The self you choose to create is the only offspring that comes with you.

Shabbos Shalom!
Rabbi Avi

This week’s essay was inspired by Rabbi Chanina Geisler of Toras Chaim Yeshiva and the Kollel of Houston. I started listening to his shiurim less than a year ago, and they’ve given me a whole new window into Torah. Expect to see his ideas a lot in my articles this year. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have!

The last one we’d ever expect to make a mistake is God. Yet right in the beginning of Creation, He seems to do exactly that.

On the sixth day of creation, God breathes a soul of life into the first human, Adam. Around him, God plants a garden and fills it with magnificent trees and succulent fruit. Then, He has second thoughts: “And Hashem, God said, ‘It is not good that man is alone; I shall make him a helper opposite him.’” (Genesis, 2:18)

How could an infinite God with perfect information falter and create something “not good”?

The answer must be that God did not make a mistake. He intentionally created Adam in a state of imperfection; a state of “not good”. But why? What would be the advantage of creating Adam “not good” before giving him Eve as the path to his goodness? Furthermore, why is aloneness the first, and therefore the quintessential ‘not-good’ of the Torah?1 Finally, if we’re not good alone, does that imply that we’re inherently broken until we find our spouse? Isn’t that the recipe for destructive co-dependency?

Complete Goodness

The first key to solving this puzzle comes from the second day of creation. Whereas each other day closes with “and God saw that it was good,” the second day conspicuously concludes with “and it was so” (Genesis, 1:7). Why the difference?Rashi explains: "The second day's work wasn't finished until the third, and an unfinished thing cannot be called good."2

In the Torah’s vocabulary, “not good” doesn’t mean bad or evil. It means incomplete.

When God calls man's aloneness "not good," He is telling us that man, by himself, is unfinished. And nowhere is this more true than in our character. So much of who we are emerges only in the presence of another. Alone, our selfishness has no mirror, our patience is never tested, and our anger has little consequence. Only in relationship, most intensely in marriage, are our traits pulled from theory into reality. Marriage forces us to confront our flaws, wrestle with them, and, for those willing to do the work, grow past them. A person alone can stay comfortably unfinished forever. A person in relationship is constantly called toward completion.

This is the meaning of “ezer kenegdo” — a helper opposite him. The Torah doesn’t say “imo,” with him - a partner doing the same work. It says “kenegdo,” opposite him. Man and woman were designed to be complementary, each fitted to the other like puzzle pieces, filling what the other lacks. And “opposite” carries a second meaning: opposed. The help we need often does not come as agreement and support, but as friction, challenge, and resistance. A helper opposite us completes us both by filling our gaps and by pushing back against us.3

The “lo tov“ — the “not good” — of aloneness, therefore, does not refer to inherent brokenness or co-dependency. Marriage, at its best, is like the relationship between a violin and a piano. Each is a complete instrument in its own right. Yet relative to the music they could make together, each one alone falls short. In his fullest form, Adam is not two halves made whole, but two wholes made greater than the sum of their parts.

Incomplete By Design

We now understand why aloneness is “not good”, so let’s go back to our opening question: If God doesn’t make mistakes, why did He create Adam that way to begin with?

Just before God creates Eve from Adam, God parades all the animals before Adam, instructing him to name them. As each species passes before him with its mate, Adam begins to long for his own partner, realizing that among the animals, “he could not find an ezer kenegdo” (Genesis, 2:20). He mourned to himself, “All of these have a mate, and I have none!”4 Feeling the lack, he began to crave a spouse.5 But it wasn’t a blind craving. Adam understood what he was asking for: a helper who would by definition sometimes oppose him, challenge him, resist him. He counted that cost honestly — and asked anyway.6

We can now appreciate God’s plan: He needed to create Adam in a state of “lo tov” and teach him through experience that “tov” only comes when we bring another into our lives, even when it’s hard.7

But this pattern didn’t originate with Adam. God knew it from personal experience.

Created to Give

Before creation, God was the infinite totality of existence, leaving no room for anything else. Yet within that infinite perfection, God, too, recognized that it is not good to be alone. According to the Ramchal, He created the universe in order “to give of His goodness to another.”8 To give, God had to contract Himself — to make room for something outside of Himself: something finite, limited, and often ungrateful. And yet He chose to give anyway, because, as the Maharal teaches, the greatest completion comes not from what you possess but from what you give beyond yourself.9 God’s greatest expression of goodness was not in His infinite self-sufficiency, but in His reaching out to give to us.

This, then, is the architecture of creation: a world designed for relationship. And if this is God’s purpose in creating the world, it follows that it is our purpose within it. Like God, man was created to transcend himself through giving to another. This is why aloneness is not merely one form of incompleteness among many. It is the ultimate incompleteness. Without another, the entire purpose of creation is foreclosed.10 As R. Chaim Shmuelevitz taught: “The whole purpose of life is to share with another — to join in their joy, to suffer in their pain, to pick up their burden and to give of one’s own. Even if a person is in as exalted a state as Gan Eden, it’s still ‘Lo Tov.’ Our greatest pleasure and fulfillment is in sharing with others.”11

Become a Giver

But to truly share with others, we must get out of ourselves. In the next verses, God gives Adam the following instruction: “Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother, and cleave to his wife, and they shall become one flesh”(Genesis, 2:24). Why must we leave our father and mother to become “one flesh” with our spouse?

Consider the difference between the relationship of a child to his parents versus a husband to his wife. A child is a receiver, cared for and provided for at every turn. A husband, on the other hand, must provide for all of his wife’s needs.12 Leaving one’s father and mother is the spiritual transition from a life of taking to a life of giving. In Hebrew, the word for love, “Ahava”, shares its root with the word “Hav”, which means to give. And Ahava - love - shares the same numerical value (13) as the word “Echad” - one. To become Echad we must practice Ahava. We must become givers.

To make this practical, let us lean on the essential teaching of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler - that every moral choice reduces to a single question: in this moment, am I a giver or a taker?13

Choose one specific interaction this week: a conversation, a call, a meeting - one that you’d normally enter thinking about what you’ll get out of it. Instead, take two minutes to think about how you could show up purely as a giver. Then, as you engage, remind yourself: “My goal is to give.”

God built loneliness into the world to point us toward the one thing that completes us: giving ourselves to another. Every time we choose to give — in marriage, in friendship, in any relationship — we are not just becoming better people, we are fulfilling the very purpose for which the world was created.

Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Avi Kovel

Dear Friends of Foundations,

The Torah just rolled back to Bereishis, and I’m rolling up my sleeves.

For a while now, I’ve been sending revised editions of old articles or filling in Parshas and Holidays I’d never covered. Those updates mattered, but I know many of you haven’t seen a brand new piece from me in over a year. This year, I’m changing that.

Here’s what’s been happening behind the scenes. My book, Ascend, is on its way, which means editing, publicity, and a lot of moving parts. At the same time, I’m building Aleph, an immersive Yeshiva experience to bring more Jews into real Torah learning in a real Torah environment.

Nonetheless, in 5787, I’m aiming to put out a significant amount of fresh writing, starting with Bereishis this week. Not every week will be brand new, but a lot of them will be. And the book and Aleph are things I can’t wait to share with you.

It’s going to be a big year. Stay tuned!

Rabbi Avi

Share Foundations in Jewish Spirituality

Does any other nation or culture dance with their books? As the festival of Sukkot draws to a close, Jewish communities worldwide engage in what might seem like a peculiar ritual - they remove their sacred Torah scrolls from the ark and dance with them for hours on end. This celebration, known as Simchas Torah (Joy of Torah), appears to defy logic. If our goal is to revel in Torah's Divine wisdom, shouldn't we spend the day studying its profound teachings rather than dancing wildly with closed scrolls?

The answer lies in Judaism's unique approach to human nature: the recognition that we are neither purely physical beings nor purely spiritual ones, but rather a divine fusion of both. Simchas Torah embodies this principle through three distinct yet interconnected expressions:

1. Elation - You know that feeling when joy fills you up so completely that words simply cannot express the emotions of your heart? On Simchas Torah, we finish the entire yearly cycle of reading the Torah. It’s the culmination of a whole year's worth of learning. Not just any learning - Torah learning! Torah is at once our compass for living, our channel to the Divine1, and our pathway to self actualization. The proper response to finishing such a text? Jumping for joy and dancing with glee! At the Torah's grand finale, our joy naturally overflows into physical expression - dancing and singing become the body's way of participating in the soul's celebration of the gift of Torah.

2. Integration - 1. During my second year of Yeshiva, I finished a tractate of Talmud for the second time; a significant accomplishment for someone who only began learning Talmud two years before. I told one of my Rabbis, Rabbi Lawrence Kelemen, about this accomplishment while on a run together. Suddenly, he grew very serious and asked, “What did you do for the celebration?” I described the beautiful party - the delicious food and the friends and mentors in attendance. He breathed a sigh of relief, “Good.” Confused at his response, I inquired, “Why are you so concerned about how I celebrated?” He responded, “When you learn Torah, your soul is very happy with your accomplishment, but your body bears none of the fruit. By celebrating your spiritual achievement with delicious food and good company, you let your body partake in the celebration. That trains your body to love the process of learning just like your soul.”

   Rabbi Kelemen's wisdom reflects the fundamental Jewish understanding of human nature, embodied in the very word for 'human being' - אדם (Adam). The word "Adam" contains two distinct parts:

   1. א - Aleph is the letter of spirituality. As the first letter in the Hebrew alphabet, it signifies primacy and unity. Also, it's the only letter with no physical sound. Without delving too deeply into Kabbalah, we can already see that Aleph represents the Godly Soul within man.

   2. דם - The root word "Dam" translates as ‘blood’ in Hebrew. This represents the physical aspect of the human being - the Human Body.

   The word “Adam” therefore holds the truth that each of us is comprised of body and soul. The body’s natural tendencies almost always directly conflict with the desires of the soul. In order to achieve our fullest potential, our bodies must unite with our souls in the pursuit of wisdom and spiritual growth. If we don't enlist our body in our spiritual mission, it will attempt to stop us at every turn and limit our ability to grow. That’s why we must train our bodies to love what our soul desires by giving physical rewards whenever we make a significant spiritual accomplishment. Hence Rabbi Kelemen’s reaction to my opportunity for celebration.
   This Jewish principle of integration—enlisting our bodies in our spiritual mission rather than fighting against them—finds its ultimate expression on Simchas Torah. After a whole year of learning and growing spiritually with the Torah, we dedicate a full day of physical and emotional celebration, dancing, singing, jumping, and laughing with the Torah, then going home to delicious meals. All of this physical joy literally revolves around our Torah, allowing it to permeate and penetrate into our very physicality.

3. Motivation - On Simchas Torah, we celebrate completing the entire Torah by immediately beginning it again—a cycle that repeats annually in Jewish communities worldwide. As most of us have experienced, starting anything significant requires tremendous energy. How can we generate the motivation necessary to propel us forward into another year of Torah learning and spiritual growth? Modern psychology has proven that the way we move and express our physical bodies can change our feelings about ourselves and our world. When we act confident, we feel confident. Physiology creates psychology; motion creates emotion.

   As we restart the Torah, we dance, sing, leap, and laugh to build into our psyche a powerful association between Torah and joy. This wisdom of creating positive associations with Torah is woven throughout Jewish tradition. When a child first begins to read Hebrew, their teacher takes the letter Aleph written on paper and smears it with honey. The child then licks the honey off the letter, creating their first sweet association with Torah learning. Like this time-tested tradition, Simchas Torah leaves a honey-flavored taste of joy in our hearts as we begin yet another year of learning. The ecstatic dancing and singing echo in our minds throughout the year, infusing us with enthusiasm each time we open our books to learn.

These three expressions - elation, integration, and motivation - are really three facets of one fundamental truth: that authentic religious experience requires the harmonious union of body and soul. Simchas Torah, with its unique custom of dancing with sacred scrolls, becomes the perfect embodiment of this principle. The seeming paradox of celebrating wisdom through dance resolves itself: we dance instead of studying Torah on this one night to train every part of ourselves to love Torah, ensuring our learning continues with joy all year long. This Simchas Torah, dance with intention: every moment of physical joy is an investment in your learning and growth for the entire year ahead.

Chag Sameach!

Avraham

The greatest threat to Jewish survival isn't found in Gaza tunnels or Iranian nuclear facilities. It's found in our own homes, synagogues, and communities. Throughout history, this enemy has proven more destructive than any external force—and it's entirely within our control to defeat.

In Vezos HaBracha, the final portion of the Torah, we find a profound revelation about the relationship between God and the Jewish people. "Then [God] became King in Jeshurun (Israel), when the heads of the people assembled, the tribes of Israel together" (Deuteronomy 33:5). God becomes King amongst Israel specifically when the leaders assemble and the tribes come together. The revolutionary insight: God's kingship depends on Jewish unity. The Daas Zekenim, a 12th century commentary comprised of the disciples of Rashi, explains:

"When the Jewish people are truly united and relate to one another as true brothers, then God is truly King over them. When they quarrel among themselves, God cannot truly be seen as being their King."

Crowning the King of Kings

Why does God's kingship depend on our unity?

The Vilna Gaon distinguishes between two Hebrew terms for leadership: Moshel and Melech. A Moshel rules by force, imposing his will on the nation, while a Melech derives authority from the willing acceptance of the people.1 Throughout the Torah, God gives us the choice to serve Him rather than imposing service upon us: "I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life" (Deuteronomy 30:19).2 God’s constant emphasis on our choice makes it clear that He seeks to be recognized as a Melech rather than a Moshel.

This distinction reveals why unity matters to God's kingship. If only half the nation accepts God as King, then God can only be half a Melech. Further, even when we all acknowledge God as our King, if we lack respect for one another, His Kingship is fractured. How can we claim to serve the same King while treating His other subjects with contempt? A true king’s authority stems from the people’s unified acceptance of His will, and their ability to live and work together to carry out that will. The Midrash on our verse explains this concept with a powerful metaphor: Picture two ships bound together, supporting a magnificent palace. As long as the ships remain connected, the palace stands firm. But if they drift apart, the palace cannot stand. So it is with the Jewish people - when we maintain our bonds of unity, we create a foundation for God's presence in our world.3

But there's another crucial dimension to this divine kingship: when we unite to crown God as our King, we activate His divine protection. The Ramban explains that when Israel fully accepts divine sovereignty, "their lives are not governed by nature at all…for God will bless their bread and their water and remove illness from their midst.”4 When we stand united under God's sovereignty, we access a protection that operates beyond the normal rules of history and politics.5

Together We Stand, Divided We Fall

Unity and division have shaped Jewish history with striking consistency.

What preceded the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai? The Torah describes the Jewish people's encampment using the singular form ויחן (vayichan) rather than the plural ויחנו (vayachanu). The Talmud6 explains that their singular encampment was "like one person with one heart." In this instance, unity led to the greatest Divine revelation in history.7

During the Second Temple period, despite careful observance of Torah law, internal strife led to catastrophe. The Talmud8 records how one Jew's public embarrassment of his fellow, with no protest from the generation's leaders, ultimately led to the Roman siege and destruction.9

In the story of Purim, Haman nearly exterminated the nation due to their disunity. When convincing Achashverosh of the Jews’ vulnerability, he described them as "scattered and separate among all the nations" (Esther 3:8). Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz, the 16th century Tsfas Kabbalist and poet, explains that "scattered" referred to their geographic dispersion, but "separate" described their internal discord and indifference. Haman recognized that a divided Jewish nation would be unable to access divine protection and plotted their destruction accordingly. Queen Esther's response was telling: she instructed Mordechai to "Go, assemble all the Jews"—through united fasting and prayer, God restored His protection, turning what would have been our darkest hour into a time of light and celebration.

Even in recent decades, this pattern continued. In 1987, the late Rabbi Nachman Bulman—a prominent American Orthodox rabbi and educator—witnessed violent clashes between religious and secular Jews in Jerusalem. He warned prophetically: "We are surrounded by tens of millions of Arabs, yet they remain docile. This peace is only due to brotherhood amongst Jews. The day a Jew raises a fist against another Jew, all our protection will be lost." A week later, the first Intifada erupted.

Most recently, the devastating Hamas attack of October 7th, 2023, struck during a period of intense internal division over judicial reform—a conflict that had brought Israel to the brink of civil war. Yet this tragic hour sparked a brief but meaningful resurgence of unity across political and religious divides. Since achieving this renewed solidarity, Israel has systematically dismantled its enemies: eliminating Hamas and Hezbollah’s leadership, toppling Iran’s proxy network, and destroying crucial Iranian military infrastructure. While these wars did cost Israeli lives, may God have mercy, Israel’s achievements and protection of its soldiers and civilians exceeded military experts’ predictions by many orders of magnitude.

A Midrashic parable distills this principle into one unforgettable image:

"Picture a man who had a bundle of reeds. One reed, he can break easily, but a bundle of them together, he cannot break. So too, the Jewish people. When they are united, no nation or people can harm them, but when they are divided, they can be destroyed, one by one."10

Standing United Today

Today, as antisemitism resurges worldwide, unity becomes more crucial than ever. We might not support every decision of Israel’s government, we might disagree with fellow Jews on matters of politics or religious practice, we might even strongly dislike certain members of our extended Jewish family, but brotherhood must take precedence if we hope to ward off external threats.

This means making concrete choices: defending fellow Jews publicly when they’re attacked even if we disagree with them privately, supporting Jewish institutions and Israel even when we question specific policies, and refusing to amplify voices that delegitimize Jews or Israel.

The pattern of history is clear: when we stand united, we access divine protection that defies all odds. When we fracture, we revert to the natural vulnerabilities of a tiny nation surrounded by its enemies.

In these challenging times, let us choose to be 'like one person with one heart.' For when we stand together as one nation, we stand with the King Himself. And no force can penetrate the 'Iron Dome' of the King of kings.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

Each autumn, as harvest time arrives and the world prepares for winter, something remarkable happens in Jewish communities worldwide: families leave their secure homes and move into temporary shelters made of branches and leaves. It seems like the worst possible timing - trading solid roofs for open sky just as weather turns harsh. What wisdom drives this seemingly backwards practice? The answer transforms our understanding of protection, abundance, and our relationship with the Divine. Let's unravel this intriguing tradition and prepare ourselves for the holiday that our Sages call "the time of our Joy"!

False Sense of Security

For millennia, human survival depended on agriculture. The harvest season, coinciding with Succot, brought a tangible sense of abundance. Imagine the satisfaction and comfort of a farmer gathering in mountains of wheat and bushels of fruits and vegetables. Today we lack such direct connection to earth's cycles, yet we feel even more protected in our climate-controlled homes with on-demand luxuries. We fortify our houses, pad our bank accounts, and tell ourselves we're prepared for anything.

But this comfort carries a hidden danger: the illusion that we control our fate—that our walls and wealth can shield us from life's unpredictability.

Take a glance at world history, particularly Jewish history, and you’ll encounter an uncomfortable yet undeniable truth: no physical shelter truly guarantees our protection. Time and again, Jewish communities rose to prominence, only to face sudden expulsion and total loss of their material wealth. Study the history of nearly every European country and you'll see the same story: Jewish prosperity followed by exile, a cycle repeating itself over the past two millennia.

The Shade of Faith

If we can't find lasting protection and joy in our homes and possessions, where can we find it?

In the Succah.

The Succah? A shack made of discarded plant material?!

Yes. According to the Talmud1, our Sukkot commemorate the Clouds of Glory that enveloped the Jewish Nation during their forty-year desert journey. You might be wondering, "Clouds... as protection? Is that the best God could do?" But that's exactly the point. Protection doesn't come from the cloud. It comes from God. These ethereal clouds served as a daily reminder that the Nation’s survival depended not on physical fortifications, but on divine providence. And so too our Succot.

The Zohar calls the shade of the Succah “Tzilusa D’Mehemnusa” - The Shade of ‘Faith.’ In Judaism, faith doesn't mean blind acceptance. Emunah translates as "trust" or "reliance"—taking the leap to live according to truth you've verified through reason and experience.2 By dwelling in a completely vulnerable Succah for seven days, we internalize the truth that nothing in THIS world can really ensure our protection, well-being, and happiness. Not our home, not our alarm system, not our government, nothing. Our security comes from one source alone: God. As King David writes in Psalms, “If God doesn’t guard the city, its watchmen stand in vain” (Tehillim 127:1).

Like all mitzvos, the tangible act of dwelling in a Succah transforms intellectual understanding into a lived experience. We abandon comfort to dwell in a leafy hut, completely exposed to the elements, living the reality of complete trust in the One Above.

The Divine Embrace

One last idea to bring us home: The Torah commands us to spend all seven days of Succot in a constant state of joy. What does joy have to do with sitting in a Succah?

The answer is that there’s no greater joy than living with true Emunah. If you meet one of the rare individuals who live with sincere trust in God, you’ll witness remarkable serenity. Crisis doesn’t devastate them; uncertainty doesn’t paralyze them. They’ve discovered life’s ultimate secret: resting in hands infinitely more capable than their own.

That’s the reality we try to connect to by dwelling in a Succah for seven days. We live under the “Shade of our Faith,” and to whatever extent we trust in God and feel His loving embrace, we experience a commensurate sense of joy and inner peace.3

And I mean embrace quite literally.

A kosher Succah requires, at minimum, 2 full walls and a handbreadth-sized third wall. Take your arm and extend it out, then wrap it as if embracing a friend. What do you see? Upper arm, forearm, hand = 2 full sides, and one handbreadth. That’s why the Arizal teaches that a Sukkah is literally a hug from God!

This Succot, write down the three biggest stresses in your life—financial pressures, health concerns, relationship conflicts, whatever keeps you up at night. Then, as you sit under the fragile roof of your Succah, consciously give each concern over to God, saying 'I place this in Your hands.' Then spend a few minutes simply feeling what it's like to trust on His divine protection rather than relying on your efforts alone. When you inevitably find yourself reverting back to stressing about these issues throughout the week, practice turning them over to God once again.

May this Succot bring you the courage to take the leap of faith and discover the profound serenity that comes from dwelling in the Divine embrace!

Chag Sameach!

Avraham

Are you prepared to conquer your fear? Overcome your anger? Eliminate your laziness? The greatest opportunity for personal growth is just around the corner! While most people see Yom Kippur as a day to feel guilty about their mistakes and promise to do better, Judaism reveals something far more transformative. Beneath the familiar rituals of fasting and confession, Yom Kippur, the "Day of Atonement", is the ultimate day of Teshuva; of returning to our true selves and our highest purpose.1 We refrain from eating, drinking, intimacy, and other material pleasures in order to elevate ourselves above physicality and connect completely to our divine essence (more on this in the recording below).

From our elevated spiritual state, we take the vision we created for ourselves on Rosh Hashana and confront the reality of how we've fallen short in the past year. We examine our actions, feel the pain of our failures, admit our mistakes, and commit ourselves to a better way of life.

For those aware of Yom Kippur's spiritual potential, this process would seem to promise untold spiritual elevation and lasting change. So why do most people go through the whole Yom Kippur prayer service with sincerity, feel bad for their actions, commit themselves to doing better, only to find themselves repeating the same patterns by Sukkot? Is the work of Yom Kippur no more effective than a New Year’s resolution? What are we missing?

A New Definition of Sin

As we know, on Yom Kippur, we atone for our sins. But do we understand what sin really is? In even the most religious circles, people define sin as the negative actions we take against God and others. But according to the great commentator, Rashi, the definition of the Hebrew word for sin is "lack" (I Kings 1:21); a lack of inner completeness. Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits, whose classes inspired this essay, explains that this inner lack refers to a fundamental deficiency in our 'middos’—the character traits/paradigms that shape how we interact with the world. What does this mean practically? Think about the last time you did something you regretted. Maybe you snapped at someone, procrastinated on something important, or gave in to an unhealthy habit. In that moment, you weren’t missing information. You knew better! What you were missing was something inside yourself: the patience to stay calm, the discipline to follow through, or the self-control to make the better choice. That internal missing piece—that’s the ‘lack’ Rashi is talking about.

To illustrate further, let’s imagine you decide to perform an act of kindness. Here’s how that decision plays out based on your middos:

• If you have the Positive middah of…

  • Courage - You call up others and enlist their help as well

  • Generosity - You give exceedingly of your time, money, and energy

  • Emotional Intelligence - You listen to find out exactly what would be most helpful

• If you have the Negative middah of…

  • Laziness - You slack off and leave the project incomplete

  • Selfishness - You withhold from giving what is needed

  • Depression - You give up before even starting

Reframing Your Imperfections

If you are a human being, I have some uncomfortable news about your middos. They are messed up. That's right. I'm calling you out. You have bad middos. Not all of them, but plenty of them. Here’s the thing though: you have nothing to feel guilty about. Whether your middos came from your nature or your nurture, you had no say in the matter. You have about as much control over them as your height or your first language. And you know what else? Judaism teaches that God gave you your bad middos as a gift. Gifts? Yes, because our character flaws give us the opportunity to improve and perfect ourselves. According to the Vilna Gaon, one of the greatest Torah minds of the past 500 years, "overcoming negative character traits (bad middos) is the essence and purpose of life."2 In other words, your Divine Mission is nothing more and nothing less than to fix your lacks. This means approaching your flaws as a scientist, explorer, or detective—seeing your imperfections as the pearly gates of God's Kingdom instead of the black gates of Hell.

Which brings us back to Yom Kippur. While this inner work of identifying and fixing our middos is an ongoing process throughout the year, Yom Kippur provides a uniquely powerful opportunity. On this day, we aim to course-correct away from sin and towards righteousness. To pivot successfully, we must look beyond our sinful actions to the lacks that created them. Once we identify these lacks, we must commit ourselves to improving our actions by fixing these bad middos once and for all. That’s the real work of Yom Kippur. That’s how we make lasting change.

Harnessing Our Flaws for Spiritual Growth

Now that we understand the deeper mechanics of Yom Kippur, you'll be struck by an obvious question upon opening the Machzor (prayer book): if the whole point is to fundamentally change our character, why do we spend so many prayers pounding our chests and listing off our individual sins?

Let me ask you another question - on a scale of 1-10, how easy or hard do you think it is to change a character trait? 10? No. More like 15! Changing our bad middos requires maximal and continual effort, often for years, if not a lifetime. What could possibly give us sufficient motivation to undergo such a difficult process? The burning anger and pain we feel when we confront the havoc wrought by our bad middos on our lives! And that's why we list our sins! By listing our sins over and over again, we force ourselves to witness the wreckage our character flaws have left in their wake. Each confession becomes an electric shock, jolting us awake to the nightmare of living enslaved to our worst impulses. The repetition builds until we can no longer bear seeing what we've done to ourselves and others. Finally, we explode: "Enough already! I refuse to live this way anymore!" In that moment of total desperation, we harness our anguish and transform it into the raw power needed to rip our bad middos out by the roots once and for all.

This last idea helps us understand the most perplexing mitzvah of the Yom Kippur service during the times of the Temple. Towards the beginning of the day, the High Priest would draw lots between two goats - one would be offered as a sacrifice to God in the Holy Temple and the other would be sent off to the wilderness and tossed off a cliff as a portion dispatched to the forces of evil.

Wait... what?

Why do we send a portion to the forces of evil on the holiest day of the year?!

Because on Yom Kippur, the forces of evil that cause us to sin become the raw energy to fuel our growth. Like the goat sent out to the wilderness, on Yom Kippur, we turn to our lower selves and say "Thank you for giving me the motivation I needed to perfect myself! (Now go jump off a cliff!)"

The Inner Work of Yom Kippur

This practical exercise requires serious commitment—plan on spending at least an hour diving deep into your character. I encourage you to schedule this hour between now and Yom Kippur, then print your results to bring with you and guide your prayers on the big day.

Part 1: Discovering Your Greatest Obstacles

To discover your most problematic middos, contemplate and answer these three questions:

1. What are the recurring sins in your life? Why are they here?

2. What stops you from achieving your goals and dreams?

3. When you give in to temptation, what need are you trying to fill?

Part 2: Generating the Energy for Change

Once you've gone through the process of identifying your primary bad middos, take time to appreciate the destruction they've caused in your life. On each of the bad middos you identified, answer the following questions:

• What has this middah cost me and those I love in the Past

• In the Present?

• In the Future? Imagine the worst case scenario. Play it out over 1, 5, and 10 years.

For all three (Past, Present, Future), try to feel the pain viscerally.

Part 3: Taking Action

Now that we've identified our problematic middos and generated the energy necessary to change, we must take the final step: creating a new vision for ourselves and begin reinforcing that vision with action. Ask yourself these four questions:

1. Of the middos you identified, which is most destructive right now?

2. What new middah do I want to activate to replace the old one?3

3. What would I look like if I overcame this bad middah and embodied the good one?

4. What tiny change can I easily make towards building this new version of myself?

We must understand one essential piece about this change process: transformation takes time. We will make many more mistakes and stumble repeatedly before we completely overcome our bad middos. Anyone who tries to fix themselves all at once will likely end up worse than they started. Therefore, we must admit to ourselves and to God that we will continue making mistakes. But from that place of honesty and humility, we can authentically commit to the process and take the first step towards greatness. This character transformation is ultimately about teshuva—returning to Hashem through the very flaws He gave us to perfect. That is the goal of Yom Kippur: to know where we are, where we're headed, and to start our journey back to our Creator with that first step.

Wishing you all a most meaningful Yom Kippur and a successful start to your process of becoming your best self!

Shana Tova!

Avraham

The Torah ends with a song - but not the kind you’d expect. Moses’s final prophecy, written in the distinctive two-column format of biblical poetry, doesn’t celebrate triumph or offer hope. Instead, it predicts failure, exile, and national catastrophe with absolute certainty. Why would the Torah choose this harsh message as its farewell declaration? And why deliver it as a song?

The Song of Destiny

At first glance, Moses's prophecy in Haazinu reads like a sobering tale of human failure that unfolds in four acts. First, God showers His chosen nation with kindness - rescuing them from Egypt, nurturing them in the desert, bringing them into the Promised Land. Then, at the height of their prosperity, the people grow fat with comfort and turn away from their Creator. This leads to the devastating third act: God's presence withdraws and catastrophe follows: wicked enemies scatter the Jewish people to the corners of the earth. Finally, God avenges His people and cleanses their land.

What makes this prophecy unique is its certainty. Most biblical warnings speak in conditional terms - "If you sin, then consequences will follow." Bechukotai and Ki Savo offer clear choices with predictable outcomes, giving us agency over our destiny. But Haazinu strips away all conditions. These events will happen, period. And indeed, the Ramban points out that everything in this prophecy has unfolded exactly as written: God rescued us from Egypt, protected us in the wilderness, brought us to Israel, and blessed us with success. Then, we grew arrogant, sinned, and suffered a painful exile. Given this flawless track record, the Ramban concludes, we can be absolutely certain about the final act of redemption.

But there's a troubling detail buried in this promise. According to the prophecy, we don't earn this redemption through repentance or merit. God saves us simply to vindicate His own name before the nations. Are we really helpless cases, destined to fail and be rescued only because our enemies are worse?

Love Without Limits

The Malbim offers a stunning parable that unlocks the deeper meaning of this song: A king decides to free a slave who has a well-known history of theft. Despite knowing the slave's character flaws, the king appoints him treasurer of the royal vault. But here's the twist: before giving the slave this position, the king writes a note in his private ledger stating, "I know this man will steal from me." Why does the king write this prediction? Not to warn the slave or prevent the theft, but to remind his future self not to punish the slave when the inevitable happens. After all, the king made this appointment with full knowledge of what would occur. The responsibility lies with the one who chose, not the one who acts according to his nature.1

This parable reveals the true message of Haazinu: we have a Father who believes in us and loves us unconditionally. The prophecy doesn't seek to crush us with inevitability, but to assure us that even at our lowest, we're never truly lost.

The Talmud2 records a fundamental debate that reinforces this theme. Rabbi Yehuda argues that our status as God's children depends on our behavior: "When you act like sons and cleave to the Holy One, you are called sons, but when you do not act like sons, you are not called sons." Rabbi Meir forcefully disagrees: "Either way you are still called sons!" He proves his point by citing verses where God calls Israel "Sons" even while criticizing them - "Foolish sons," "Sons in whom there is no faithfulness," "Sons who deal corruptly." Even at our worst, the Torah never stops calling us God's children. The law is decisive: we follow Rabbi Meir. No matter what, we remain God's children.

I once heard an interview with NBA legend Kobe Bryant about his father's role in his basketball career. Kobe described his experience playing in a summer league at age eleven. He scored zero points the entire summer. After his final game, he approached his father, devastated. His father wrapped his arm around young Kobe and said, "Son, I love you whether you score 0 or you score 60." Smiling during the interview, Kobe exclaimed, "I said to myself, 'Cool, I've got the love, now I'm going to go score 60.'" He went on to become one of the greatest scorers of all time.

That’s the power of a father’s embrace. When we internalize the certainty of God’s love, we gain the strength to brush off our zero-point days and strive for our full potential. The song’s harsh predictions don’t chain us to failure - they create the ultimate safety net, freeing us to reach for the stars. In that light, Haazinu isn’t just a prophecy - it’s our Father’s eternal promise that no matter how far we fall, His love will always be there to lift us back up.

Embracing Our Zero-Point Days

This understanding transforms how we approach both our own failures and those of others. When you face your next setback, pause and ask: “How would I speak to someone I love unconditionally about this situation?” Then extend that same compassion to yourself. God’s love doesn’t fluctuate with your performance, and neither should your self-worth.

Now comes the harder challenge: extending this same unconditional love to others. Just as Kobe’s father wrapped his arm around his devastated son, we can become sources of unwavering support for those we love. The next time someone disappoints you - your child, student, friend, or spouse - remember the Malbim’s insight. You entered this relationship knowing human nature. Your role isn’t to punish the inevitable stumbles; it’s to give love despite them and help the person rise again.

May we find strength in God’s unconditional love, and may we have the courage to offer that same love to others.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

The curtain rises on the grandest theater ever conceived. The backdrop stretches across galaxies, adorned with blazing stars and swirling nebulae. The stage is planet earth, mountains and oceans are its props, and countless creatures fill its supporting roles. After five days of elaborate set design, the spotlight finally illuminates center stage.

Enter humanity.

The Birthday of Creation

Rosh Hashana, far more than just the Jewish New Year, celebrates the most consequential birthday in history — not the universe's birth, but humanity's.

According to the Midrash1, while we call it the Birthday of Creation, Rosh Hashana actually commemorates the sixth day of Creation, when God created Adam and Eve.

What could possibly make our arrival more significant than the emergence of the cosmos itself? But here’s the real paradox: we celebrate this cosmic birthday not with cake and presents, but with judgment—the Day of Judgment. What kind of birthday party includes getting evaluated and scrutinized? Shouldn’t we be rejoicing, not trembling?

The answer to these questions lies in a gift so powerful, so fundamental to our existence, that it shapes not just our lives, but the very fabric of reality.

A Crash Course in Jewish Philosophy

Before we reveal this gift, we need to step back and ask some fundamental questions:

Why did God Create the World?

Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzato, one of the greatest Jewish thinkers of the past 500 years, summarizes Judaism’s answer in one profound statement: "God created the universe to bestow His greatest good upon another."2 Since God is infinite and lacks nothing, He didn't create the world to fulfill some need of His own. Creation exists purely as an act of divine generosity—God wanted to share His goodness with beings who could receive it.

What is the greatest good that God sought to bestow?

Rabbi Luzzato explains that the greatest good is the opportunity to achieve unity with God Himself. Think about it: what could be better than connecting with the Source of all existence? This unity—called "devekus"—represents the ultimate pleasure and fulfillment. It's not just knowing about God or believing in God, but actually becoming one with the Divine.3

How can finite beings achieve unity with the Infinite?

As Rashi explains in Devarim 13:5, to unite with God, we must become like God.4 In the spiritual world, closeness isn't measured by physical proximity—it's measured by similarity. Two people can sit next to each other yet feel worlds apart if their values clash. But two strangers who share the same principles can feel instant connection. Similarly, we draw close to God by mirroring His characteristics and actions.

What is God’s most essential characteristic?

God’s most essential trait is complete independence. Every creation depends on something else for its existence—plants need sunlight, animals need food—the whole universe operates through cause and effect. God alone depends on nothing. He is completely self-generated, bound by nothing outside Himself—the causeless beginning of all existence.

What allows humans to mirror this divine quality?

Our gift of free will. Just as God generates His own existence through His autonomous will, human beings create themselves through their choices. Every decision we make shapes who we become—we're not just passive products of our environment or genetics, but active creators of our own identity. This is the profound meaning of "God created man in His image" (Bereishis 1:27).5

To sum it all up…

Through our gift of free will, we fulfill the ultimate purpose of creation—receiving the ultimate good by becoming like our Creator.

Celebrating Judgement

Armed with this understanding, the paradox of Rosh Hashana resolves beautifully. We celebrate the Birthday of Mankind with the Day of Judgement because judgement presupposes the very gift that makes us human—the power to choose. Think about it:

1. Judgement implies accountability.

2. Accountability implies we had a choice in the matter.

3. Choice implies free will.

Therefore, judgement embodies the supreme gift of mankind: free will.

At the same time that we tremble in trepidation to receive our judgement, we revel in the gift of free will which allows us to be judged.6 Far from being terrifying, judgement becomes the ultimate validation of our divine nature.

When we approach this sacred day, we're not simply hoping to avoid punishment. We're celebrating the staggering truth that the entire universe—every star, every galaxy, every force of nature—exists to provide the stage for our free will choices.

With this perspective, we don’t dread judgement. We celebrate it!7

Embracing Life’s Challenges

This insight brings us to our final point. In our age of convenience and technology, comfort has become our religion. We bow to ease, sacrifice growth for gratification, and treat difficulty as suffering. But think about the most fulfilling experiences in your life—raising children, building careers, mastering skills, deepening relationships. Didn't they all come from embracing life’s challenges?

It's no accident that we derive the most fulfillment from facing difficulty. It aligns perfectly with the core principle we've been discussing—that the greatest gift in life is free will. Difficulty is life’s invitation to step into your starring role in the cosmic drama. This year, relish the opportunity to apologize after hurting a friend. Revel in the chance to speak up about an unethical practice at work despite potential consequences to your job. Take pride in donating that extra bit of time or money when you'd rather keep it for yourself. When you feel resistance to making a difficult moral choice, that's your cue to act.8 Break free from comfort and step into your starring role.

Because making free will choices in a difficult world is the greatest gift of all. It’s how we earn our keep, earn the ultimate pleasure, earn Godliness.9

May we be written and sealed for life, may we revel in the challenge, and may we have the sweetest of new years!

Shana Tova!

Avraham

Inspired by the classes of Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits, head of my Rabbinic Training Program (The Jerusalem Kollel) Elul 2022-2023

“Open, O gates. The King is coming!” (Tehillim 24:7)

My name is Rabbi Avi Kovel, a rebbe at the Machon Yaakov and Machon Shlomo Yeshivas in Jerusalem and a weekly Torah contributor to Aish.com. As a former professional obstacle-course athlete and fitness entrepreneur turned Torah educator, my writing combines my background in peak performance with nine years of intensive study under the generation's leading rebbeim: Rabbi Beryl Gershenfeld, Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits, Rabbi Aharon Lopiansky, and Rabbi Lawrence Kelemen. This companion, Days of Awe, Days of Joy, brings that approach to Elul, Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchas Torah.

I hope you find something in here that brings clarity, meaning, and direction to your experience of these Days of Awe and Days of Joy.

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Elul: How to Return to Your Truest Self

The phone rings at 3 AM. Your child — now grown, living hundreds of miles away — whispers through tears: “Can I come home?”

“Of course,” you say without hesitation. “I’ll leave the light on.”

Hours later, when they finally walk through your door — exhausted, broken, but safe — you don’t ask what happened. You simply wrap them in your arms and whisper, “Welcome home.”

This scene captures something profound that Judaism has understood for millennia: the deepest healing doesn’t come from punishment or shame. It comes from remembering you always have a place where you belong.

The Spiral Staircase of Spirituality

Judaism maps the year like a spiral staircase — we ascend higher each cycle, but we always encounter the same essential opportunities for growth. Each month offers its own spiritual theme, a recurring doorway that opens year after year, inviting us to enter more deeply than we did before.

Take three examples: Nissan, the month of Passover, holds the potential for liberation — freedom from whatever holds us back. Adar, the month of Purim, offers joy — finding light in the midst of life’s chaos. But Elul presents perhaps the most precious opportunity: the chance for Teshuva.

For centuries, we’ve mistranslated Teshuva as “repentance,” conjuring images of sackcloth and ashes, of 40 days spent cataloguing our failures and wallowing in religious guilt.* But the Hebrew tells a different story entirely.

The Etymology of Return

Teshuva (תשובה) stems from the root “Shav” (שב) — to return. When we engage in Teshuva, we don’t grovel before an angry deity. We return to three magnificent realities:

1. God, our loving Father in Heaven.

2. Our authentic selves, beneath all the masks and compromises.

3. Our divine mission — the unique purpose only we can fulfill.

At its essence, Elul, the month of Teshuva, is about returning to God and our highest selves. The Talmud points out that the very letters of Elul (אלול) form the acronym: Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li — “I am to my Beloved and my Beloved is to me.” Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, the founder of Chabad, explains that throughout the year, God dwells like a king in his palace — formal, distant, requiring elaborate protocols. But during Elul, He walks in the field, ready to embrace any wanderer who stumbles toward Him.**

Why Elul?

But why is Elul specifically the month of teshuva? The answer is written into the story of Moshe and the tablets.

Moshe ascended Har Sinai three times, each time for forty days. The first round ended in catastrophe: the golden calf, and Moshe smashing the tablets on 17 Tammuz.

In the second round, Moshe pled for forgiveness while the Jewish people did teshuva, ending on 29 Av with God appeased. Notice: that’s the end of Av. Elul hasn’t even started yet.

In the third round, everything changes. On 1 Elul, Moshe ascends with the second set of tablets while the people continue doing teshuva. This time, upon Moshe’s return, Rashi adds one word: God was appeased... b’simcha — with joy.

Why does that single word matter so much?

The Gemara in Yoma (86b) tells us there isn’t just one kind of teshuva. Reish Lakish makes two statements that appear contradictory: 1) teshuva wipes away sins as if they were accidental, and 2) teshuva converts sins into merits. The Gemara resolves it: teshuva m’yira — out of fear — wipes sins away. Teshuva m’ahava — out of love — turns them into merits.

The difference isn’t about the severity of guilt. It’s about what the sin does to the relationship. According to Rav Dessler’s definitions, teshuva m’yira is standing face to face with consequences: I see clearly what this cost me, I regret it, and God does me the kindness of treating it as an accident. That gets you back to zero. But teshuva m’ahava works the way it does in any close relationship. When we hurt someone we love, the pain isn’t about consequences, it’s that we can’t tolerate having created distance. That very pain becomes a longing for closeness that didn’t exist before the sin. The sin becomes the reason we now want the relationship more than we ever did. That’s not neutralizing the sin. That’s transmuting it into the fuel for something greater. That’s how it becomes a merit.

This is exactly the shape of the three forty-day periods. Av ends with appeasement: the guilt is resolved, we’re back to zero. Elul is Klal Yisrael taking that resolved relationship and turning it into something with more longing, more desire, more love than existed before the sin ever happened. That’s why the appeasement in Elul comes b’simcha while the appeasement in Av does not.

Elul isn’t just another month. It’s the month that was forged in the crucible of our greatest national failure and emerged as the vessel for our deepest love.

The Heresy of Original Sin

And this brings us to what is perhaps the sharpest dividing line between Judaism and the world around it. Christianity sees humanity as fundamentally broken — born into sin, in need of external salvation. Judaism sees something entirely different: we don’t believe in Original Sin. We believe in original perfection.

The very concept of “return” assumes you’ve been somewhere before. You can’t return to a place you’ve never been. The magnificence you seek — connection to God, authenticity, purpose — these aren’t foreign territories to conquer. They’re your true home, and deep in your soul, you’ve never forgotten the way.

Moses makes this explicit in Parshas Nitzavim:

“Surely, this Teaching which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens... Neither is it beyond the sea... No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.” (Devarim 30:11-14)

The Ramban reveals that this “Teaching” refers to the preceding verse: “You shall return (תשוב) to Hashem, your God, with all your heart and all your soul.”

Teshuva isn’t an advanced spiritual practice reserved for the enlightened few. It’s as natural as breathing, as close as your next heartbeat. You only need to stop running from yourself long enough to remember who you’ve always been.

This understanding transforms how we view our mistakes. The Hebrew word for sin, “chet,” literally means “missing the target” — like an archer whose arrow veers off course. There’s nothing wrong with the archer; he simply needs recalibration.

Charting Your Course Home

As you move through the month of Elul and the days leading up to Yom Kippur, make a practice of returning. Find solitude and ask:

• What is really important to me?

• What have I always known to be true, even when I tried to ignore it?

To shift from self-reflection to divine alignment, ask:

• What is important to God? What does God want from me?

Write down your discoveries. Then, with compassion rather than judgment, examine the gap between your ideals and your reality. Once you’ve identified behaviors that need changing, the Rambam offers a three-step process:

1. Feel genuine regret — not self-hatred, but sorrow for time lost in exile

2. Confess to God — naming what happened without excuses or justifications

3. Resolve never to repeat the behavior — by remembering who you really are

This Elul, don’t repent. Return. The door to your truest self has never been locked.

*Repentance combines the prefix “re-” (again) with “penitence” (to feel sorry). Accordingly, it is the process of feeling sorry again and again for your mistakes. That is not the Jewish vision of Teshuva.
**Likkutei Torah, Parshat Re’eh, 32b

Rosh Hashana: Understanding and Appreciating Our Greatest Gift

The curtain rises on the grandest theater ever conceived. The backdrop stretches across galaxies, adorned with blazing stars and swirling nebulae. The stage is planet earth, mountains and oceans are its props, and countless creatures fill its supporting roles. After five days of elaborate set design, the spotlight finally illuminates center stage.

Enter humanity.

The Birthday of Creation

Rosh Hashana, far more than just the Jewish New Year, celebrates the most consequential birthday in history — not the universe’s birth, but humanity’s. According to the Midrash,* while we call it the Birthday of Creation, Rosh Hashana actually commemorates the sixth day of Creation, when God created Adam and Eve.

What could possibly make our arrival more significant than the emergence of the cosmos itself? But here’s the real paradox: we celebrate this cosmic birthday not with cake and presents, but with judgment — the Day of Judgment. What kind of birthday party includes getting evaluated and scrutinized? Shouldn’t we be rejoicing, not trembling?

The answer to these questions lies in a gift so powerful, so fundamental to our existence, that it shapes not just our lives, but the very fabric of reality.

A Crash Course in Jewish Philosophy

Before we reveal this gift, we need to step back and ask some fundamental questions:

Why did God Create the World?

Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzato, one of the greatest Jewish thinkers of the past 500 years, summarizes Judaism’s answer in one profound statement: “God created the universe to bestow His greatest good upon another.”** Since God is infinite and lacks nothing, He didn’t create the world to fulfill some need of His own. Creation exists purely as an act of divine generosity — God wanted to share His goodness with beings who could receive it.

What is the greatest good that God sought to bestow?

Rabbi Luzzato explains that the greatest good is the opportunity to achieve unity with God Himself. Think about it: what could be better than connecting with the Source of all existence? This unity — called “devekus” — represents the ultimate pleasure and fulfillment. It’s not just knowing about God or believing in God, but actually becoming one with the Divine.***

How can finite beings achieve unity with the Infinite?

As Rashi explains in Devarim 13:5, to unite with God, we must become like God.† In the spiritual world, closeness isn’t measured by physical proximity — it’s measured by similarity. Two people can sit next to each other yet feel worlds apart if their values clash. But two strangers who share the same principles can feel instant connection. Similarly, we draw close to God by mirroring His characteristics and actions.

What is God’s most essential characteristic?

God’s most essential trait is complete independence. Every creation depends on something else for its existence — plants need sunlight, animals need food — the whole universe operates through cause and effect. God alone depends on nothing. He is completely self-generated, bound by nothing outside Himself — the causeless beginning of all existence.

What allows humans to mirror this divine quality?

Our gift of free will. Just as God generates His own existence through His autonomous will, human beings create themselves through their choices. Every decision we make shapes who we become — we’re not just passive products of our environment or genetics, but active creators of our own identity. This is the profound meaning of “God created man in His image” (Bereishis 1:27).††

To sum it all up…

Through our gift of free will, we fulfill the ultimate purpose of creation — receiving the ultimate good by becoming like our Creator.

Celebrating Judgment

Armed with this understanding, the paradox of Rosh Hashana resolves beautifully. We celebrate the Birthday of Mankind with the Day of Judgment because judgment presupposes the very gift that makes us human — the power to choose. Think about it:

1. Judgment implies accountability.

2. Accountability implies we had a choice in the matter.

3. Choice implies free will.

Therefore, judgment embodies the supreme gift of mankind: free will.

At the same time that we tremble in trepidation to receive our judgment, we revel in the gift of free will which allows us to be judged.††† Far from being terrifying, judgment becomes the ultimate validation of our divine nature.

When we approach this sacred day, we’re not simply hoping to avoid punishment. We’re celebrating the staggering truth that the entire universe — every star, every galaxy, every force of nature — exists to provide the stage for our free will choices.

With this perspective, we don’t dread judgment. We celebrate it!‡

Embracing Life’s Challenges

This insight brings us to our final point. In our age of convenience and technology, comfort has become our religion. We bow to ease, sacrifice growth for gratification, and treat difficulty as suffering. But think about the most fulfilling experiences in your life — raising children, building careers, mastering skills, deepening relationships. Didn’t they all come from embracing life’s challenges?

It’s no accident that we derive the most fulfillment from facing difficulty. It aligns perfectly with the core principle we’ve been discussing — that the greatest gift in life is free will. Difficulty is life’s invitation to step into your starring role in the cosmic drama.

This year, relish the opportunity to apologize after hurting a friend. Revel in the chance to speak up about an unethical practice at work despite potential consequences to your job. Take pride in donating that extra bit of time or money when you’d rather keep it for yourself. When you feel resistance to making a difficult moral choice, that’s your cue to act.‡‡ Break free from comfort and step into your starring role.

Because making free will choices in a difficult world is the greatest gift of all. It’s how we earn our keep, earn the ultimate pleasure, earn Godliness.‡‡‡

May we be written and sealed for life, may we revel in the challenge, and may we have the sweetest of new years!

Inspired by the classes of Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits, head of my Rabbinic Training Program (The Jerusalem Kollel) Elul 2022-2023

*Vayikra Rabba 29:1

**Derech Hashem 2:1

***Path of the Just 1:2

† For more, see the post below:

††In the words of the Rambam: “The human species is unique in the world – there being no other species like it in the following respect; namely, that a person by himself, and by the exercise of intelligence and reason, knows what is good and what is evil, and there is none who can prevent the human person from doing what is good or that which is evil.” (Moses Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Laws of Teshuva 5:1)

†††The first words of the Torah are: “Bereishis bara Elokim.” Elokim is God’s name of strict justice (whereas YHVH is His name of mercy). The Torah starts with the words, “In the beginning, Elokim created the world.” The implication is that the world was created with Din. Din is the ideal state of the world. Din allows God to give the most good to us because it gives us the complete ability to create our own reality. If you have the choice to earn everything vs. asking for mercy, the ideal is to earn it all. King David tells us in Psalms, “Olam chessed yiboneh” - The world is built with kindness. What’s the kindness? Isn’t it all din? That’s exactly the point - the world was built with din - justice - and that’s the greatest kindness.

‡Two important points on how this concept applies to the customs of Rosh Hashana: (1) When we dip our apples in honey and pray for a sweet new year, we ask that the tests and challenges God gives us to self-actualize be the kind where we can grow through joy as opposed to pain. (2) In our Rosh Hashana prayers, we ask that God write us in the “Book of Life”. But, we are not asking for mere existence - for more years of taking up space. We’re asking for opportunities to grow and exercise our free will to become our best selves. That’s what we mean when we say “Life”. To be fully alive is to use our free will for good in the face of life’s greatest challenges.

‡‡Worth remembering: Making the right choice is rarely the same as making the easy choice.

‡‡‡The Rema rules that we have a custom to avoid sleep on Rosh Hashana (Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 583:2). The classical reason, cited by the Yerushalmi (Rosh Hashana 4:8), is that one’s mazal — spiritual fortune — sleeps if he sleeps on this day. As the day of judgment, it is a time to remain vigilant, engaged in prayer and Torah study rather than allowing precious hours to slip away. But in light of everything we’ve explored in this essay, a deeper dimension emerges. If Rosh Hashana is the celebration of free will — the day we embrace the challenge of conscious, active living — then sleep represents its precise opposite: the ultimate surrender to comfort and passivity. To sleep away the Day of Judgment is not merely to waste time; it is to miss the entire point of the day. Rosh Hashana calls us to show up fully — awake, engaged, and ready to embrace the challenge of life. Note: one who needs sleep to function is not included in this custom — the concern is with indulgent sleep, not necessary rest.

Yom Kippur: From Sin to Self-Improvement

Are you prepared to conquer your fear? Overcome your anger? Eliminate your laziness? The greatest opportunity for personal growth is just around the corner! While most people see Yom Kippur as a day to feel guilty about their mistakes and promise to do better, Judaism reveals something far more transformative. Beneath the familiar rituals of fasting and confession, Yom Kippur, the “Day of Atonement,” is the ultimate day of Teshuva; of returning to our true selves and our highest purpose.* We refrain from eating, drinking, intimacy, and other material pleasures in order to elevate ourselves above physicality and connect completely to our divine essence.

From our elevated spiritual state, we take the vision we created for ourselves on Rosh Hashana and confront the reality of how we’ve fallen short in the past year. We examine our actions, feel the pain of our failures, admit our mistakes, and commit ourselves to a better way of life.

For those aware of Yom Kippur’s spiritual potential, this process would seem to promise untold spiritual elevation and lasting change. So why do most people go through the whole Yom Kippur prayer service with sincerity, feel bad for their actions, commit themselves to doing better, only to find themselves repeating the same patterns by Sukkot? Is the work of Yom Kippur no more effective than a New Year’s resolution? What are we missing?

A New Definition of Sin

As we know, on Yom Kippur, we atone for our sins. But do we understand what sin really is? In even the most religious circles, people define sin as the negative actions we take against God and others. But according to the great commentator, Rashi, the definition of the Hebrew word for sin is “lack” (I Kings 1:21); a lack of inner completeness. Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits, whose classes inspired this essay, explains that this inner lack refers to a fundamental deficiency in our ‘middos’ — the character traits/paradigms that shape how we interact with the world. What does this mean practically? Think about the last time you did something you regretted. Maybe you snapped at someone, procrastinated on something important, or gave in to an unhealthy habit. In that moment, you weren’t missing information — you knew better. What you were missing was something inside yourself: the patience to stay calm, the discipline to follow through, or the self-control to make the better choice. That internal missing piece — that’s the ‘lack’ Rashi is talking about.

To illustrate further, let’s imagine you decide to perform an act of kindness. Here’s how that decision plays out based on your middos:

If you have the Positive middah of…

• Courage - You call up others and enlist their help as well

• Generosity - You give exceedingly of your time, money, and energy

• Emotional Intelligence - You listen to find out exactly what would be most helpful

If you have the Negative middah of…

• Laziness - You slack off and leave the project incomplete

• Selfishness - You withhold from giving what is needed

• Depression - You give up before even starting

Reframing Your Imperfections

If you are a human being, I have some uncomfortable news about your middos. They are messed up. That’s right. I’m calling you out. You have bad middos. Not all of them, but plenty of them. Here’s the thing though: you have nothing to feel guilty about. Whether your middos came from your nature or your nurture, you had no say in the matter. You have about as much control over them as your height or your first language. And you know what else? Judaism teaches that God gave you your bad middos as a gift. A gift? Yes, because our character flaws give us the opportunity to improve and perfect ourselves. According to the Vilna Gaon, one of the greatest Torah minds of the past 500 years, “Overcoming negative character traits (bad middos) is the essence and purpose of life.”** In other words, your Divine Mission is nothing more and nothing less than to fix your lacks. This means approaching your flaws as a scientist, explorer, or detective — seeing your imperfections as the stairway to heaven rather than the trapdoor to hell.

Which brings us back to Yom Kippur. While this inner work of identifying and fixing our middos is an ongoing process throughout the year, Yom Kippur provides a uniquely powerful opportunity. On this day, we aim to course-correct away from sin and towards righteousness. To pivot successfully, we must look beyond our sinful actions to the lacks that created them. Once we identify these lacks, we must commit ourselves to improving our actions by fixing these bad middos once and for all. That’s the real work of Yom Kippur. That’s how we make lasting change.

Harnessing Our Flaws for Spiritual Growth

Now that we understand the deeper mechanics of Yom Kippur, you’ll be struck by an obvious question upon opening the Machzor (prayer book): if the whole point is to fundamentally change our character, why do we spend so many prayers pounding our chests and listing off our individual sins?

Let me ask you another question – on a scale of 1-10, how easy or hard do you think it is to change a character trait? 10? No. More like 15! Changing our bad middos requires maximal and continual effort, often for years, if not for a lifetime. What could possibly give us sufficient motivation to undergo such a difficult process? The burning anger and pain we feel when we confront the havoc wrought by our bad middos on our lives! And that’s why we list our sins! By listing our sins over and over again, we force ourselves to witness the wreckage our character flaws have left in their wake. Each confession becomes an electric shock, jolting us awake to the nightmare of living enslaved to our worst impulses. The repetition builds until we can no longer bear seeing what we’ve done to ourselves and others. Finally, we explode: “Enough already! I refuse to live this way anymore!” In that moment of total desperation, we harness our anguish and transform it into the raw power needed to rip our bad middos out by the roots once and for all.

This last idea helps us understand the most perplexing mitzvah of the Yom Kippur service during the times of the Temple. Towards the beginning of the day, the High Priest would draw lots between two goats - one would be offered as a sacrifice to God in the Holy Temple and the other would be sent off to the wilderness and tossed off a cliff as a portion dispatched to the forces of evil.

Wait... what?

Why do we send a portion to the forces of evil on the holiest day of the year?!

Because on Yom Kippur, the forces of evil that cause us to sin become the raw energy to fuel our growth. Like the goat sent out to the wilderness, on Yom Kippur, we turn to our lower selves and say, “Thank you for giving me the motivation I needed to perfect myself! (Now go jump off a cliff!)”

The Inner Work of Yom Kippur

This practical exercise requires serious commitment — plan on spending at least an hour diving deep into your character. I encourage you to schedule this hour between now and Yom Kippur, then print your results to bring with you and guide your prayers on the big day.

Part 1: Discovering Your Greatest Obstacles

To discover your most problematic middos, contemplate and answer these three questions:

1. What are the recurring sins in your life? Why are they here?

2. What stops you from achieving your goals and dreams?

3. When you give into temptation, what need are you trying to fill?

Part 2: Generating the Energy for Change

Once you’ve gone through the process of identifying your primary bad middos, take time to appreciate the destruction they’ve caused in your life. On each of the bad middos you identified, answer the following questions:

• What has this middah cost me and those I love in the Past?

• In the Present?

• In the Future? Imagine the worst case scenario. Play it out over 1, 5, and 10 years.

For all three (Past, Present, Future), try to viscerally feel the pain.

Part 3: Taking Action

Now that we’ve identified our problematic middos and generated the energy necessary to change, we must take the final step: creating a new vision for ourselves and begin reinforcing that vision with action. Ask yourself these four questions:

1. Of the middos you identified, which is most destructive right now?

2. What new middah do I want to activate to replace the old one?†

3. What would I look like if I overcame this bad middah and embodied the good one?

4. What tiny change can I easily make towards building this new version of myself?

We must understand one essential piece about this change process: transformation takes time. We will make many more mistakes and stumble repeatedly before we completely overcome our bad middos. Anyone who tries to fix themselves all at once will likely end up worse than they started. Therefore, we must admit to ourselves and to God that we will continue making mistakes. But from that place of honesty and humility, we can authentically commit to the process and take the first step towards greatness. This character transformation is ultimately about teshuva — returning to Hashem through the very flaws He gave us to perfect. That is the goal of Yom Kippur: to know where we are, where we’re headed, and to start our journey back to our Creator with that first step.

Wishing you all a most meaningful Yom Kippur and a successful start to your process of becoming your best self!

Inspired by the classes of Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits

*For more on this topic, see Elul: How to Return to Your Truest Self

**Beur HaGra to Mishlei 4:13

†Pro Tip: Use your best middos to counter your worst. Rabbi Kelemen and Rabbi Steinhauer would often relate in their classes how Rabbi Wolbe would share Rabbi Yeruchem Levovitz’s constant refrain: “If you don’t know your bad middos, you don’t know what to work on. If you don’t know your good middos, you don’t know what to work with!”

Sukkot: Dwelling in the Divine Embrace

Each autumn, as harvest time arrives and the world prepares for winter, something remarkable happens in Jewish communities worldwide: families leave their secure homes and move into temporary shelters made of branches and leaves. It seems like the worst possible timing - trading solid roofs for open sky just as weather turns harsh. What wisdom drives this seemingly backwards practice? The answer transforms our understanding of protection, abundance, and our relationship with the Divine. Let’s unravel this intriguing tradition and prepare ourselves for the holiday that our Sages call “the time of our Joy”!

False Sense of Security

For millennia, human survival depended on agriculture. The harvest season, coinciding with Succot, brought a tangible sense of abundance. Imagine the satisfaction and comfort of a farmer gathering in mountains of wheat and bushels of fruits and vegetables. Today, we lack such direct connection to earth’s cycles, yet we feel even more protected in our climate-controlled homes with on-demand luxuries. We fortify our houses, pad our bank accounts, and tell ourselves we’re prepared for anything.

But this comfort carries a hidden danger: the illusion that we control our fate—that our walls and wealth can shield us from life’s unpredictability.

Take a glance at world history, particularly Jewish history, and you’ll encounter an uncomfortable yet undeniable truth: no physical shelter truly guarantees our protection. Time and again, Jewish communities rose to prominence, only to face sudden expulsion and total loss of their material wealth. Study the history of nearly every European country and you’ll see the same story: Jewish prosperity followed by exile, a cycle repeating itself over the past two millennia.

The Shade of Faith

If we can’t find lasting protection and joy in our homes and possessions, where can we find it?

In the Succah.

The Succah? A shack made of discarded plant material?!

Yes. According to the Talmud,* our Sukkot commemorate the Clouds of Glory that enveloped the Jewish Nation during their forty-year desert journey. You might be wondering, “Clouds... as protection? Is that the best God could do?” But that’s exactly the point. Protection doesn’t come from the cloud. It comes from God. These ethereal clouds served as a daily reminder that the Nation’s survival depended not on physical fortifications, but on divine providence. And so too, our Succot.

The Zohar calls the shade of the Succah “Tzilusa D’Emunah” - The ‘Shade of Faith.’ In Judaism, faith doesn’t mean blind acceptance. Emunah translates as “trust” or “reliance”—taking the leap to live according to truth you’ve verified through reason and experience.** By dwelling in a completely vulnerable Succah for seven days, we internalize the truth that nothing in THIS world can really ensure our protection, well-being, and happiness. Not our home, not our alarm system, not our government, nothing. Our security comes from one source alone: God. As King David writes in Psalms, “If God doesn’t guard the city, its watchmen stand in vain” (Tehillim 127:1).

Like all mitzvos, the tangible act of dwelling in a Succah transforms intellectual understanding into a lived experience. We abandon comfort to dwell in a leafy hut, completely exposed to the elements, living the reality of complete trust in the One Above.

The Divine Embrace

One last idea to bring us home: The Torah commands us to spend all seven days of Succot in a constant state of joy (Devarim 16:15). What does joy have to do with sitting in a Succah?

The answer is that there’s no greater joy than living with true Emunah. If you meet one of the rare individuals who live with sincere trust in God, you’ll witness remarkable serenity. Crisis doesn’t devastate them; uncertainty doesn’t paralyze them. They’ve discovered life’s ultimate secret: resting in hands infinitely more capable than their own.

That’s the reality we try to connect to by dwelling in a Succah for seven days. We live under the “Shade of our Faith,” and to whatever extent we trust in God and feel His loving embrace, we experience a commensurate sense of joy and inner peace.†

And I mean embrace quite literally.

A kosher Succah requires, at minimum, 2 full walls and a handbreadth-sized third wall. Take your arm and extend it out, then wrap it as if embracing a friend. What do you see? Upper arm, forearm, hand = 2 full sides, and one handbreadth. That’s why the Arizal teaches that a Sukkah is literally a hug from God!

This Succot, write down the three biggest stresses in your life—financial pressures, health concerns, relationship conflicts, whatever keeps you up at night. Then, as you sit under the fragile roof of your Succah, consciously give each concern over to God, saying ‘I place this in Your hands.’ Then spend a few minutes simply feeling what it’s like to trust in His divine protection rather than relying on your efforts alone. When you inevitably find yourself reverting back to stressing about these issues throughout the week, practice turning them over to God once again.

May this Succot bring you the courage to take the leap of faith—to leave your home’s false security and discover the profound serenity that comes from dwelling in the Divine embrace!

*Succah 11B

**Faith can’t mean blind acceptance because our Torah commands us to “know” G-d, which means we are obligated to question and probe for truth until we prove to ourselves the reality of God beyond a reasonable doubt. Blind faith is a tool used by other religions to push participants away from questioning their beliefs. Judaism has nothing to hide - we welcome questioning. Our entire system of learning is based on intense questioning – looking for the sources and reasons for why we do what we do and why we believe what we believe. Any respectable Rabbi will welcome all sincere questions with open arms. Just look at the Passover Seder - questions are the most celebrated part of the whole experience!

†For further depth, I based much of this essay on the following insightful talk by Rabbi Akiva Tatz: https://www.simpletoremember.com/media/a/festivals-v-succot-in-the-shadow-of-faith/

Simchas Torah: From Study Hall to Dance Floor

Does any other nation or culture dance with their books? As the festival of Sukkot draws to a close, Jewish communities worldwide engage in what might seem like a peculiar ritual - they remove their sacred Torah scrolls from the ark and dance with them for hours on end. This celebration, known as Simchas Torah (Joy of Torah), appears to defy logic. If our goal is to revel in Torah’s Divine wisdom, shouldn’t we spend the day studying its profound teachings rather than dancing like banshees with closed scrolls?

Dancing With Body and Soul

The answer lies in Judaism’s unique approach to human nature: the recognition that we are neither purely physical beings nor purely spiritual ones, but rather a divine fusion of both. Simchas Torah embodies this principle through three distinct yet interconnected expressions:

1. Elation

You know that feeling when joy fills you up so completely that words simply cannot express the emotions of your heart? On Simchas Torah, we finish the entire yearly cycle of reading the Torah. It’s the culmination of a whole year’s worth of learning. Not just any learning - Torah learning! Torah is at once our compass for living, our channel to the Divine,* and our pathway to self actualization. The proper response to finishing such a text? Jumping for joy and dancing with glee! At the Torah’s grand finale, our joy naturally overflows into physical expression - dancing and singing become the body’s way of participating in the soul’s celebration of the gift of Torah.

2. Integration

During my second year of Yeshiva, I finished a tractate of Talmud for the second time; a significant accomplishment for someone who only began learning Talmud two years before. I told one of my Rabbis, Rabbi Lawrence Kelemen, about this accomplishment while on a run together. Suddenly, he grew very serious and asked, “What did you do for the celebration?” I described the beautiful party - the delicious food and the friends and mentors in attendance. He breathed a sigh of relief, “Good.” Confused at his response, I inquired, “Why are you so concerned about how I celebrated?” He responded, “When you learn Torah, your soul is very happy with your accomplishment, but your body bears none of the fruit. By celebrating your spiritual achievement with delicious food and good company, you let your body partake in the celebration. That trains your body to love the process of learning just like your soul.”

Rabbi Kelemen’s wisdom reflects the fundamental Jewish understanding of human nature, embodied in the very word for ‘human being’ - אדם (Adam). The word “Adam” contains two distinct parts:

1. א - Aleph is the letter of spirituality. As the first letter in the Hebrew alphabet, it signifies primacy and unity. Also, it’s the only letter with no physical sound. Without delving too deeply into Kabbalah, we can already see that Aleph represents the Godly Soul within man.

2. דם - The root word “Dam” translates as ‘blood’ in Hebrew. This represents the physical aspect of the human being - the Human Body.

The word “Adam” therefore holds the truth that each of us is comprised of body and soul. The body’s natural tendencies almost always directly conflict with the desires of the soul. In order to achieve our fullest potential, our bodies must unite with our souls in the pursuit of wisdom and spiritual growth. If we don’t enlist our body in our spiritual mission, it will attempt to stop us at every turn and limit our ability to grow. That’s why we must train our bodies to love what our soul desires. We do so by giving physical rewards whenever we make a significant spiritual accomplishment. Hence Rabbi Kelemen’s reaction to my opportunity for celebration.

This Jewish principle of integration—enlisting our bodies in our spiritual mission rather than fighting against them—finds its ultimate expression on Simchas Torah. After a whole year of learning and growing spiritually with the Torah, we dedicate a full day of physical and emotional celebration, dancing, singing, jumping, and laughing with the Torah, then going home to delicious meals. All of this physical joy literally revolves around our Torah, allowing it to permeate and penetrate into our very physicality.

3. Motivation

On Simchas Torah, we celebrate completing the entire Torah by immediately beginning it again—a cycle that repeats annually in Jewish communities worldwide. As most of us have experienced, starting anything significant requires tremendous energy. How can we generate the motivation necessary to propel us forward into another year of Torah learning and spiritual growth? Modern psychology has proven that the way we move and express our physical bodies can change our feelings about ourselves and our world. When we act confident, we feel confident. Physiology creates psychology; motion creates emotion.

As we restart the Torah, we dance, sing, leap, and laugh to build into our psyche a powerful association between Torah and joy. This wisdom of creating positive associations with Torah is woven throughout Jewish tradition. When a child first begins to read Hebrew, their teacher takes the letter Aleph written on paper and smears it with honey. The child then licks the honey off the letter, creating their first sweet association with Torah learning. Like this time-tested tradition, Simchas Torah leaves a honey-flavored taste of joy in our hearts as we begin yet another year of learning. The ecstatic dancing and singing echo in our minds throughout the year, infusing us with enthusiasm each time we open our books to learn.

These three expressions - elation, integration, and motivation - are really three facets of one fundamental truth: that authentic religious experience requires the harmonious union of body and soul. Simchas Torah, with its unique custom of dancing with sacred scrolls, becomes the perfect embodiment of this principle. The seeming paradox of celebrating wisdom through dance resolves itself: we dance instead of studying Torah on this one night to train every part of ourselves to love Torah, ensuring our learning continues with joy all year long.

This Simchas Torah, dance with intention: every moment of physical joy is an investment in your learning and growth for the entire year ahead!

*The Talmud teaches that in a world without prophecy, the only way we access God directly is by learning His Torah: “From the day the Temple was destroyed, the only place where the Holy One, Blessed be He, can be found is in the four cubits of Torah Law” (Berachos 8a)

Coming Soon: Ascend

Ascend: The Torah’s Path to Self-Transformation

If these essays resonated with you, they’re just a glimpse of what you’ll find in Ascend: The Torah’s Path to Self-Transformation.

In Ascend, Rabbi Avi Kovel, former professional obstacle-course athlete and fitness entrepreneur turned Torah educator, combines his background in peak performance with nine years of intensive study under the generation’s leading rebbeim: Rabbi Beryl Gershenfeld, Rabbi Yitzchak Berkovits, Rabbi Aharon Lopiansky, and Rabbi Lawrence Kelemen. The result is a rare fusion: essays on every parsha and chag that draw on the depth of our greatest sages — from Rashi and Ramban to the Midrash and Maharal — while delivering tangible, life-changing takeaways you can apply today.

In Ascend, you’ll find real answers to the questions that matter most: How do we master our lesser desires? Build deep, lasting relationships? Turn life’s hardest challenges into growth? Ascend tackles these questions, and many more, one parsha at a time.

Textually rigorous. Genuinely practical. Written for anyone ready to turn their learning into real transformation. Your ascent starts here.

Sign up for weekly parsha and holiday essays, and be the first to know when Ascend launches — right here on this Substack!

Shana Tova!
Rabbi Avi Kovel

The sounds of Shabbat morning prayers echo through two distant synagogues. In one, a Moroccan congregation sways to the rise and fall of the cantor’s ancient North African melodies, responding with traditional calls of encouragement. In another, Hungarian Chassidim with black coats and long side-locks rock vigorously, led by their holy Rebbe. The customs, the dress, the very atmosphere – everything seems worlds apart. Yet in both sanctuaries, they read from a Torah scroll that is all but letter-for-letter identical to its counterpart across the world.1 This remarkable paradox – near-perfect textual uniformity across 3,500 years alongside vibrant diversity in its expression – hints at a profound truth contained in the Torah's final mitzvah.

The Final Commandment of the Torah

In Parshat Vayeilech, God commands: "Write for yourselves this song and teach it to the children of Israel" (Deuteronomy 31:19). Our Sages teach that this verse comprises the 613th mitzvah: every Jew must write his own Torah scroll.2 This interpretation leaves us with a number of questions:

• Why does God call Torah a song?

• Why must each person write their own scroll?

• Why is this the final commandment?

The answers to these puzzling questions lie in understanding one of the Torah’s most fundamental characteristics.

The Harmony of Uniqueness

In his landmark work on Jewish law3, Rabbi Yechiel Michel Epstein explains that God likens Torah to a song because both achieve their fullest expression through harmony. In a harmony, distinct voices coalesce into a flowing fullness of sound. If any voice is missing, the song loses dimension and depth. The more variety, the more beauty.

This explanation challenges our assumptions. Wouldn’t an unchanging text containing strict legal codes demand conformity, with everyone thinking and serving God identically?

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Zohar teaches that, at the Revelation at Mount Sinai, God presented a unique facet of Torah to all six hundred thousand souls present. This revelation affected not just those physically present, but the souls of all Jews throughout time.4 Each soul got a portion in Torah completely unique to them—one that only they can bring out into the world.5

Through years of study, I’ve experienced this firsthand. The more I learn, the more I find myself uncovering subtle nuances and fresh perspectives that add new dimensions to familiar texts. Each insight feels like illuminating another facet of an already brilliant diamond, revealing more of God’s light into the world. This weekly series of essays represents my own journey of discovering and sharing my portion in Torah - a collection of insights that, God willing, will inspire others to reach new insights of their own.

But these personal discoveries point to something far deeper. The Zohar teaches, "God looked into the Torah and created the world. Man looks into Torah and sustains the world."6 Torah isn't merely a book of laws and lessons, or even just a means to connect with God – it both forms and sustains the very fabric of existence. When we actualize our unique portion in Torah through learning, teaching, and embodying it, we become co-creators in existence itself.

This gives new meaning to our daily prayer, "Give us our portion in Your Torah - ותן חלקנו בתורתך" We ask not just for understanding, but for the power to become a co-creator in God’s universe. Just as a Torah scroll becomes invalid without any letter, the world remains incomplete without each person’s distinct expression of Torah.

Writing Your Way to Revelation

Perhaps the greatest symbolic act of acquiring your portion in Torah comes from fulfilling the very mitzvah we've been exploring—writing a Sefer Torah. The Sefer HaChinuch explains that writing our own scroll, rather than relying on inheritance, represents our commitment to forge a personal relationship with God and His Torah7

Writing a Torah scroll serves as the perfect culmination of all 613 mitzvot because it encapsulates Torah’s ultimate purpose: providing an unchanging foundation through which each person discovers and expresses their unique spiritual identity. The scroll remains constant letter by letter, yet becomes new again through each individual who writes it, lives it, and shares their original understanding with others.

To bring this idea home, the Talmud8 states that one who writes a Torah scroll is as if he received it at Mount Sinai. Just as each soul at Sinai received its unique portion in Torah, through writing our personal Torah scroll, we recreate that direct revelation, staking our claim to our spiritual inheritance.9

Discovering Your Portion

While we can fulfill the mitzvah of writing a Torah scroll by commissioning a scribe, writing a single letter, this mitzvah calls us to pursue our most elevated mission: discovering our personal portion in Torah. Here are a few practical suggestions to help you on your search:

• Keep a notebook to capture Torah ideas that spark your interest.

• Track the topics and questions that naturally draw your attention.

• Explore connections between different areas of Torah and other wisdom.

• Research areas of Torah that resonate with you most deeply. The wealth of online lectures from great Rabbis and Rebbetzins provides endless opportunities for learning. (Please reach out if you'd like suggestions!)

• Share one insight each week with someone in your life.

The Eternal Symphony

Like a grand symphony where each instrument plays its unique part while contributing to a harmonious whole, Torah enables us to express our individuality while remaining rooted in sacred tradition. The text never changes, but its music constantly evolves through the harmony of every Jew in every generation.

May we all be blessed to find our unique portion in Torah, partnering with God in revealing His infinite light to the world.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

The phone rings at 3 AM. Your child—now grown, living hundreds of miles away—whispers through tears: "Can I come home?"

"Of course," you say without hesitation. "I'll leave the light on."

Hours later, when they finally walk through your door, exhausted, broken, but safe. You don't ask what happened. You simply wrap them in your arms and whisper, "Welcome home."

This scene captures something profound that Judaism has understood for millennia: the deepest healing doesn't come from punishment or shame. It comes from remembering you always have a place where you belong.

The Spiral Staircase of Spirituality

The Torah maps the year like a spiral staircase. We ascend higher each cycle, but we always encounter the same essential opportunities for growth. Each month offers its own spiritual theme, a recurring doorway that opens year after year, inviting us to enter more deeply than we did before.

Take three examples: Nissan, the month of Passover, holds the potential for liberation—freedom from whatever holds us back. Adar, the month of Purim, offers joy—finding light in the midst of life's chaos. But Elul, the month when we read Parshas Nitzavim, presents perhaps the most precious opportunity: the chance for Teshuva.

For centuries, we've mistranslated Teshuva as "repentance,"1 conjuring images of sackcloth and ashes, of 40 days2 spent cataloguing our failures and wallowing in religious guilt. But the Hebrew tells a different story entirely.

The Etymology of Return

Teshuva (תשובה) stems from the root "Shav" (שב): to return. When we engage in Teshuva, we don't grovel before an angry deity.3 We return to three magnificent realities:

1. God, our loving Father in Heaven.

2. Our authentic selves, beneath all the masks and compromises.

3. Our divine mission, which only we can fulfill.

At its essence, Elul, the month of Teshuva, is about returning to God and our highest selves. The Talmud points out that the very letters of Elul (אֱלוּל), form the acronym: (אֱ) Ani (ל) L'Dodi (וּ) V'Dodi (ל) Li—"I am to my Beloved and my Beloved is to me." Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, the founder of Chabad, explains that throughout the year, God dwells like a king in his palace, but during Elul, He walks in the field, ready to embrace any wanderer who stumbles toward Him.

The Heresy of Original Sin

Here lies Christianity's fundamental error and Judaism's revolutionary insight: we don't believe in original sin. We believe in original perfection.

The very concept of "return" assumes you've been somewhere before. You can't return to a place you've never been. The magnificence you seek—connection to God, authenticity, purpose—these aren't foreign territories to conquer. They're your true home, and deep in your soul, you've never forgotten the way.

Moses makes this explicit in Parshas Nitzavim:

"Surely, this Teaching which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens... Neither is it beyond the sea... No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it." (Devarim 30:11-14)

The Ramban reveals that this "Teaching" refers to the preceding verse: "You shall return (תָשׁוּב) to Hashem, your God, with all your heart and all your soul."

Teshuva isn't an advanced spiritual practice reserved for the enlightened few. It's as natural as breathing, as close as your next heartbeat. You only need to stop running from yourself long enough to remember who you've always been.

This understanding transforms how we view our mistakes and failures. The Hebrew word for sin, "chet," literally means "missing the target", like an archer whose arrow veers off course. There's nothing wrong with the archer; he simply needs recalibration. Getting back on target means remembering who you really are and realigning your life with that truth.

Charting Your Course Home

As you move through the month of Elul and the days leading up to Yom Kippur, make a practice of returning. I suggest finding solitude and asking the following essential questions:

• What is really important to me?

• What have I always known to be true, even when I tried to ignore it?

To shift from self-reflection to divine alignment, ask:

• What is important to God? What does God want from me?

Write down your discoveries. Then, with compassion rather than judgment, examine the gap between your ideals and your reality: what specific actions or patterns have pulled you away from these truths? Once you've identified the behaviors that need changing, the Rambam offers a three-step process:

1. Feel genuine regret: not self-hatred, but sorrow for time lost in exile

2. Confess to God: naming what happened without excuses or justifications

3. Resolve never to repeat the behavior: not through willpower alone, but by remembering who you really are

The goal is to become so aligned with your authentic self that your past mistakes feel like someone else’s story.

This Elul, don't repent. Return. The door to your truest self has never been locked.

Shana Tova!

Avraham

It is not in the heavens, that you should say, “Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it?” (Devarim 30:12)

What mitzvah would you give the Jewish nation as their inaugural task upon entering the Land of Israel? Conquer Jerusalem? Build a great altar?

In Parshas Ki Savo, God gives us the answer: erect massive stones and engrave them with the entire Torah in all 70 of the world’s major languages (Devarim 27:1-8). The Torah repeats this commandment three times, which the Talmud interprets as an instruction to erect and inscribe 3 sets of stones.

To grasp the magnitude of this mitzvah, let's do a little math:

• 600,000 characters in the Torah

• 70 languages

• 3 sets of stones

• 600,000 X 70 X 3 = 126,000,000 characters (equivalent to 252,000 single-spaced pages in Microsoft Word)

And remember: Every letter must be carved into stone without modern tools or technology. Among all the Torah’s commandments, this mitzvah ranks as perhaps the most labor intensive. That leaves us to wonder, why does God choose this “monumental” task as His top priority upon entering the Land of Israel?

The Land of Torah

The Ramban, the renowned 13th century leader of Spanish Jewry, offers two beautiful interpretations:

1. "It was for the sake of the Torah that you have come [to Israel]." - The whole purpose of the Land is to carry out the Torah

2. "As a remembrance so that you may come into the Land and conquer it and drive out all these peoples, [a conquest that will be yours only] when you will remember the Torah and keep all its commandments.” - You will only be able to conquer the Land and its inhabitants when you keep the Torah.

While these teachings illuminate our fundamental mission in Israel, they don't fully explain the specific characteristics that make this mitzvah so extraordinary. We’re still left wondering:

1. Why such a Herculean task?

2. Why must we carve the entire Torah into stone?

3. Why three times?

4. Why translate it into 70 languages?

Transcending Transcendence

The key to answering these questions lies in an earlier episode of the Torah - the story of the spies. Before entering the Land, the Israelites sent twelve leaders to scout ahead and bring back a report. Instead of accurately relaying their findings, the spies returned with devastating slander about God’s Land. Upon hearing the report, the Jews despaired, cursing God for taking them out of Egypt. God responded in kind, condemning the generation to wander the desert for 40 years.

But why did these distinguished leaders give such a negative report? According to the revolutionary interpretation of the Alter Rebbe, founder of Chabad, the spies wanted to maintain their elevated spiritual state in the desert without engaging in the earthly pursuits of the Land of Israel. Desert life offered pure transcendence:

• Manna descended from heaven (no agriculture needed)

• Divine clouds protected them (no military concerns)

• Constant miracles sustained them (no mundane worries)

Israel meant messy reality:

• Land to cultivate

• Wars to fight

• Commerce to transact

In the Alter Rebbe’s interpretation, the spies claim that Israel is "a land that consumes its inhabitants" meant that the Land consumes one's time and energy with worldly demands, stifling one's capacity to study Torah and meditate upon its truths.

In essence, the spies refused to renounce the spiritual utopia of the desert for the entanglements of an earthbound life in the Land of Israel.

But were the spies so wrong for wanting to devote their time and energy to achieving lofty spiritual heights? If anything, that seems like a holy and noble goal! Maybe we should celebrate these spiritual purists rather than condemn them!

Elevating the Physical

This view represents a fundamental misunderstanding of Jewish spirituality. If God wanted pure spirituality, why did He put us in physical bodies in a physical universe? Almost every commandment in the Torah demands interaction with the material world. No matter how hard you meditate, you can’t fulfill the mitzvah of challah without real dough baked in a real oven. No matter how intensely you pray, you can’t fulfill the mitzvah of tefillin without actual leather boxes strapped to your arm. The Jewish approach doesn’t transcend physicality. It transforms it. We use material elements to serve spiritual goals, elevating the physical world through our divine service.

The Land of Israel represents where our mission of sanctifying physicality reaches maximum potential. Many of the essential mitzvos exclusive to the Land require significant physical exertion: pilgrimage festivals, leaving crops for the poor, building the Temple, and much more. Furthermore, as the spies feared, the Land would force us to engage in mundane matters—earning a living, protecting borders, managing earthly concerns. But contrary to the spies’ assumption, these tasks represent the highest form of spirituality: bringing heaven down to earth. To embed this essential truth in the people’s hearts, God gave them the mitzvah of carving the entire Torah into stone as their inaugural act upon arrival.

Carving the entire Torah into stone manifests the Divine within the mundane, encapsulating the very purpose of the Jewish nation in the Land of Israel.1 The Herculean nature of the task was not a byproduct. It was the point. Bringing spirituality into the physical world is hard work. It requires sweat, persistence, and grinding through tedium without losing sight of the goal. God wanted the Jewish people to internalize that process. Therefore, He instructed them to take the most transcendent thing in existence — the Torah — and force it, character by character, into the most resistant physical medium imaginable. God was essentially saying, “If you can do this, you understand what awaits you in the Land.”

Universal Elevation

As we mentioned earlier, God commands the Nation to repeat this carving process three times. Looking closely at the verses, the location of the command changes in each repetition: once on the riverbed of the Jordan, the next on the plains of Gilgal, and finally on Mount Eival. Notice a trend?

• Riverbed - Low

• Plains - Middle

• Mountain - High

What's the message? Each place has its own particular and unique potential, but the mission never changes. We must elevate all aspects of the physical world to serve the Divine.

One last detail that we need to illuminate: Why 70 languages? Because to truly bring the Torah out into the world and Godliness down to earth, the Jewish people must become a light unto the nations. The Talmud teaches that humanity divides into 70 distinct nations speaking 70 languages.2 Carving 70 languages into the stones enabled every visitor, regardless of origin, to access God's wisdom in their native tongue. The message is clear: if the Nation carries out its mission properly, anyone who comes to the Land should sense the tangible connection between heaven and earth and feel inspired to pursue their own spiritual elevation.3

The stone-carving project served as more than a public declaration—it functioned like a corporate retreat before launching a major initiative. As the nation carved each character in each language, they internalized every aspect of their calling:

• The act of carving itself embedded the truth that physical action transforms spiritual potential into reality.

• The three locations taught them that no place was too high or too low for divine service.

• The 70 languages showed them that their responsibility to spread the light of Torah extended beyond their own borders.

This internalized mission would guide the Jewish people for generations, both in the Land and throughout their exile.

Staying Grounded

A famous story about Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, the Mussar movement’s founder, beautifully conveys this principle. Before one Yom Kippur, word spread that this legendary figure would lead prayers. Crowds flocked from everywhere to hear him on Judaism’s holiest day.

The synagogue packed. The moment arrived. Everyone waited... and waited. But he never came.

They'd later discover that, on his way to shul, R. Yisrael heard a child crying incessantly. He waited for a family member to assist the baby, but no one arrived. Realizing the parents had left their child to hear him pray, he entered their home and cared for the baby until they returned.

The parents had mistakenly assumed they needed to travel to the synagogue to connect with spirituality. Rabbi Salanter understood that true spirituality begins with attending to urgent earthly responsibilities.4

Dwelling in the Desert or Working the Land

The colossal mitzvah of the engraved stones reminds us that no spiritual act surpasses one with tangible impact on the world around us. The desert and the Land are two stages of a single journey. We cultivate an inner world so that we have something worth bringing outward.5 Our ultimate mission is to internalize spiritual wisdom in order to drive it into the physical world: to bring the heavens down to earth.

As you approach the High Holidays, examine your life circumstances: "Am I in a season of dwelling in the desert or is my mission to work the Land? Where do I need to rebalance these two aspects of divine service?"

If you’re heavily invested in spiritual growth - yeshiva, Rabbinic study, contemplative practices - ask yourself: “Have I focused so intensely on inner development that I’ve neglected earthly responsibilities? Where do my insights need to become actions?”

If you’re heavily invested in the physical world, ask yourself: “Am I bringing Torah’s higher ideals into my work, finances, and home life? How can I elevate my daily activities into spiritual service?”

May we find strength to carve Godliness into the most mundane moments of our lives.

Shabbat Shalom,

Avraham

How important is marriage? A recent survey by Bradford Wilcox reveals a troubling disconnect: 75% of adults ages 18-40 consider making a good living crucial to life fulfillment, while only 32% view marriage as essential. Additionally, 40-50% of first marriages end in divorce, with subsequent marriages facing even higher failure rates.1 The conclusion seems inescapable: as a society, we’re giving up on marriage.

Modern marriage fails because we've forgotten a fundamental truth: successful relationships require ruthless prioritization. We treat marriage like a hobby—something to nurture when work calms down, when finances stabilize, when life becomes convenient.

The Torah offers a radically different approach.

Priority One: Your Marriage

Three thousand five hundred years ago, Parshas Ki Teitzei established a revolutionary principle that has strengthened Jewish families for millennia:

"When a man has newly taken a wife, he shall not go out with the army or be assigned to it for any purpose; he shall be exempt for the sake of his household for one year, to give happiness to the woman he has taken" (Devarim 24:5)

Most young couples fail to realize that a relationship in its infancy, delicate and fragile like a newborn baby, requires maximum care, love, and attention. They go about their lives, prioritizing their careers and their other obligations, failing to nurture the most essential aspect of their lives. This mitzvah, known as Shana Rishona – the First Year, teaches the foundation of successful marriage: your spouse must come first. Not sometimes. Not when convenient. Always.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch emphasizes that, by exempting newlyweds from military service, the highest civic duty, the Torah establishes an uncompromising hierarchy: marriage success determines national success, not the reverse.

Marriage’s Divine Endorsement

Rabbeinu Bachya reveals the extent to which God invests Himself in this mitzvah: the final letters of “נקי יהיה לביתו שנה“ (he shall be exempt for his household for one year) spell out God’s four-letter name—the Tetragrammaton. The Creator literally signed His name on this commandment – to leave everything aside and spend the first year building your relationship!

Even more remarkably, Rabbeinu Bachya adds that God practiced what He preached. After the "wedding" at Mount Sinai, the Divine Presence remained stationary for one year before traveling with the Jewish people—God's own Shana Rishona with His chosen nation.

This divine endorsement reveals why prioritizing marriage isn't just relationship advice—it's cosmic law.

The First “Not Good” In the Torah

But why should marriage rank above career, military service, and personal ambitions? Why is marriage so important to God?

In the entire creation narrative, the only thing God declares “not good” is solitary man"It's not good that man be alone" (Genesis 2:18). Rabbi Hirsch explains: The goal of perfection which the terrestrial world is to attain through man cannot be attained as long as man is alone. As our Rabbis teach us (Yevamos 63A): Only husband and wife together are called “Adam - אדם“ as is stated, ‘Male and female He created them…and called their name Adam’ (Genesis 5:2).”

Marriage doesn't just create families; it creates fully realized human beings. Jewish law2 demonstrates this profound truth: when a child is born, the parents make a blessing to express gratitude to God.3 But remarkably, the text of the blessing does not mention the creation of a new human being. We reserve that blessing for the first of the seven wedding blessings, which declares, “Baruch Ata Adonai, Yotzer Ha’Adam - Blessed are You, God, who creates man.” When man and woman enter the bond of marriage under the chuppah, they are born anew, unified as their complete self.

This points to something even deeper: marriage’s ultimate purpose. In the Tomer Devorah, Rabbi Moshe Cordovero, the 16th century predecessor to the Arizal, teaches that a man stands between two females: his wife below, and the Shechina – Divine Presence – above. Man’s connection to the Shechina depends on how he conducts himself with his wife, for the two relationships are not parallel tracks but one relationship lived out in two dimensions. When a man learns to truly give to his wife, he is simultaneously cultivating his capacity to give to God. Strengthen one relationship and the other flourishes; neglect one and the other withers.4 Through marriage, we don’t just build a home. We train for our relationship with the Divine.

Getting Your Priorities Straight

This week, examine where marriage actually ranks in your life's priorities. If you're single, consider how you'll rearrange these priorities when you find your spouse. If you’re married, see whether your calendar, budget, and attention reflect the Torah's hierarchy. Then, make a schedule change that gives your marriage the time it needs to flourish. The ancient wisdom of Shana Rishona offers a clear guideline: treat your spouse's happiness as your primary mission, and watch both your marriage and your spiritual growth flourish.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

1

If power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, than no one is more susceptible to corruption than a king. How do you keep a a king from becoming corrupt? In Parshas Shoftim, the Torah gives us its solution:

"And it shall be that when [the king] sits on the throne of his kingdom, he shall write for himself two copies of this Torah in a scroll… It shall be with him and he shall read from it all the days of his life, so that he will learn to fear Hashem, his God, to observe all the words of this Torah and these decrees, to perform them, so that his heart does not become haughty over his brothers and he does not turn from the commandment right or left, so that he will prolong years over his kingdom, he and his sons amid Israel."  (Devarim 17:18-20)

In summary, the king must write two Torah scrolls and carry one with him constantly—from his throne to the battlefield to public addresses. By reading from this Torah each day, he learns to “fear Hashem,” recognizing that a Supreme Being stands above him, that his kingship can vanish instantly, and that he’ll answer for his actions in this life and the next. Could there be a more perfect medicine to prevent the corrupting influence of absolute power?

We can all appreciate the wisdom of this commandment, but if we look a little deeper, we'll see another fascinating detail of this mitzvah. According to the verse, the king must personally write two Torah scrolls. Why two scrolls? According to the Talmud1, one travels with him everywhere while the other remains locked in his treasury. We understand the value of portable Torah guidance, but why invest equal energy in a scroll destined for storage?

The Double Life Dilemma

To understand why the king needs two scrolls, let us examine how leadership typically unfolds in our world today. Too often, we see the greatest public figures living double lives. History offers countless examples: Martin Luther King Jr. transformed America’s conscience on civil rights while engaging in numerous extramarital affairs that tormented his marriage. Steve Jobs revolutionized technology and changed how millions communicate, yet initially denied paternity of his daughter Lisa. Robin Williams brought joy to millions through his performances while struggling with severe depression and addiction that eventually led to suicide. Even when these leaders achieved extraordinary external impact, they often failed to master their inner worlds.

Society often excuses these private lapses, focusing instead on public heroism and leadership. But Jewish wisdom takes a radically different approach.

Leading on Every Level

The Torah's vision of leadership rejects any separation between public achievement and private character. The Talmudic sage Rabban Gamliel refused to let anyone into his academy who wasn't "tocho c'boro"- whose insides did not match his outside.2 This same Rabban Gamliel taught, "Do not judge your fellow until you reach his place" (Ethics of Our Fathers 2:4). The Meiri, a classic 13th-century commentator, explains this teaching: one cannot judge a person by their actions out in the world. One must go to where that person lives and see their private life in order to judge their true character.

The Kuzari, a twelfth-century philosophical dialogue by Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, in which a rabbi defends Judaism before the King of the Khazars, presents perhaps the most striking definition of authentic leadership. When the Khazar king asks the Rabbi to define a saintly person, expecting a description of private piety and spiritual devotion, the Rabbi surprises him: “A saintly person is one who is concerned with his country... He leads them justly, does not oppress any one of them.” The king pushes back: “I asked you about a saintly person, not a leader!” The Rabbi replies: “The saintly person is a leader. All of his senses and attributes, both spiritual and physical, submit themselves to his command... He has shown that he is fit to govern — that were he to rule over a country, he would preside over it justly just as he has done with his own body and soul.”3

A clear hierarchy emerges from these sources: before we can lead others, we must first master ourselves and our homes. This reflects Judaism’s approach to leadership, which operates through three expanding circles of mastery:

• Level 1: Internal Leadership - In Ethics of Our Fathers (4:1), Ben Zoma teaches, "Who is mighty? He who subdues his inclinations." Only through self-control against life's many temptations can one embark on the path to true leadership.

  Level 2: Familial Leadership - Level 2: Familial Leadership - Rav Chaim Vital, primary student of the legendary Kabbalist the Arizal, teaches that a person’s character is judged only by his relationship with his wife. No matter how much charity a person gives, how many people he comforts, or how much kindness he performs in the world — in God’s eyes, none of it counts if he isn’t bringing that same love and generosity into his own home. The small daily acts of love and care given to spouse and family account for far more of a person’s spiritual achievement than all the charity, heroism, and world-changing impact of a lifetime combined.4

  Level 3: External Leadership - Once you've mastered yourself and built a stable home, you might be ready to expand your concentric circles to include community, nation, and world. At each stage of expansion, the individual must never be forgotten in favor of the collective, for the collective consists of individuals.

Now that we understand the Torah’s vision for leadership, we can solve the mystery of the two Torah scrolls. Whereas one scroll accompanies him as an ever-present reminder of his role as God’s trusted servant in leading the Jewish people, the second remains locked in his personal treasury, reminding him of the equal, if not greater, importance of self-mastery and proper conduct within his home. The treasury scroll embodies the Torah’s most radical leadership principle: private character matters at least as much as public achievement.

A Vision of Dual-Scroll Leadership

Rabbi Moshe Shapira, one of the greatest teachers of the last generation, exemplified this dual-scroll wisdom. He taught over 35 classes and mentored over 1,000 future rabbis each week, wielding influence across the Jewish world. Yet he never lost sight of individual dignity, as the following story demonstrates: During a mediation he was officiating, the cleaning lady offered him tea. He politely declined and continued working. Hours later, after helping settle the dispute, he walked down two flights of stairs to where his student was waiting with the car. As he was about to get in, he suddenly exclaimed, “I forgot something!” Before his student could reply, he rushed back upstairs, searching room by room until he found the cleaning lady. He smiled, wished her a cordial goodbye, and left.5

The same Rabbi Moshe who shaped thousands of future leaders also cared for one forgotten woman, sustained a 60-year marriage and, according to all who knew him, exercised complete control over himself in every movement and word.

Changing the Diapers

Two takeaways emerge from the Torah’s dual-scroll vision. First, like the king’s public scroll, if you’ve been granted any position of influence—CEO, president, father, or mother—take a moment at the start of your week to remind yourself of your dependence on God for your life, abilities, and power. Second, like the king’s treasury scroll, assess whether you’ve given enough attention to the less glamorous moments of your life; the ones that don’t earn fame and success yet form the backbone of true Jewish leadership.

Just as the king needed both scrolls to lead properly, we need to strive for mastery in both dimensions. The public scroll reminds us to use our leadership to serve something higher than ourselves. The treasury scroll asks, metaphorically: have you been changing the diapers?

May we be blessed to bring these essential lessons of leadership into our careers, communities, homes, and beyond!

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

How does a person achieve closeness with God?

Every major religion seems to agree: divine connection requires withdrawal from the world. Tibetan monks spend years in mountain caves. Christian mystics embrace austere poverty. Hindu sadhus renounce all worldly attachments.

Judaism offers a radically different approach.

When the Torah commands us to "cleave to Hashem" (Deuteronomy 13:5), what does this mystical concept of devekus actually mean? Rashi's explanation shatters our expectations: "Cleave to His ways, perform acts of kindness: bury the dead; visit the sick; just as the Holy One, Blessed is He, did."1

Wait—that’s it? No meditation retreats? No ascetic practices? Exactly. The message rings clear: we achieve closeness to God by acting like God—by doing kindness for others.

Spiritual Physics

How essential is kindness to God? The Ramchal, the greatest Kabbalist of the last 300 years, teaches that God's purpose in creating humanity was "to give good to another."2 The logic is that since God is infinite and lacks nothing, He necessarily created us for some purpose beyond fulfilling Himself. The only logical explanation: He created the universe to bestow goodness upon us.

Therefore, Creation itself represents one giant act of kindness.

The Talmud reinforces this idea beautifully: "The Torah's beginning is an act of kindness and its end is an act of kindness. Its beginning—God made garments to clothe Adam and Eve. Its end—God buried Moses."3 From Genesis to Deuteronomy, kindness defines God's essence.

So God's way is kindness, but how does our mirroring His actions draw us close to Him? Rabbi Lawrence Kelemen explains the spiritual physics: "Closeness in the material world is measured by inches. Closeness in the spiritual world is measured by similarity."

Physical proximity means nothing in the realm of spirit. A couple can share the same bed yet feel emotionally worlds apart while in a fight. Meanwhile, two veterans from different wars who just met can feel instant connection—their shared experiences of sacrifice and service create immediate spiritual closeness despite their differences in upbringing and nationality. Similarly, when we perform acts of loving-kindness, we don’t just help others—we transform ourselves. Each gesture of generosity, each moment of genuine care, shapes us in God’s image. When we bestow goodness onto others, we emulate God’s fundamental nature and thereby cleave to Him.4 Kindness becomes our vehicle for devekus.

Finding the Mystical in the Mundane

The most powerful proof for this revolutionary approach comes from our patriarch Avraham. Three days after circumcising himself, at the peak of his pain, under the blazing Middle Eastern sun, Avraham sat at his tent entrance experiencing prophetic communion with God Himself.

Suddenly, three travelers appeared in the distance.

Avraham's response? "My Master, if I have found favor in your eyes, please do not pass from before Your servant!" Essentially: Please excuse me while I run off to serve these hungry, tired souls!

How could Avraham abandon divine revelation for hospitality?!

With the framework we've established, the answer becomes obvious. Avraham didn't leave God at all. By running to bestow goodness onto others, Avraham achieved an even greater connection to God than he ever could while staying in individual revelation.

Marketplace Mysticism

This revolutionary path to spirituality finds expression throughout Jewish history. Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov, an 18th-century Hasidic master, passed among the vendors in the marketplace, checking the quality of straw. Another prominent rabbi approached him and asked, "Rebbe, what are you doing here among these mundane matters? Shouldn't we be discussing Torah together?"

Rabbi Moshe Leib replied sharply, "Leave out my 'Rebbe' and your 'Rebbe' and come with me to carry a bale of hay to a poor widow who has no hay upon which to lay her broken body."

The two holy leaders went together, hauling a bale of hay on their shoulders. Astonished bystanders stared in wonder and moved aside to make room for them to pass. As they went, Rabbi Moshe Leib remarked, "Were the Holy Temple standing today, we would be bringing sacrifices. Now we bring straw, and it is as though we have all the spiritual intentions that come with offering the afternoon sacrifice."

Your Divine Connection

This week, before performing an act of kindness—whether planned or spontaneous—pause to connect with its deeper significance. Recognize that this expression of loving-kindness will literally bring you closer to your Creator. Let that awareness infuse more love and life into your action. Feel how kindness becomes the bridge between human and divine.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham

Any thinking person today values gratitude. The benefits are well-documented: improved mood, better relationships, increased resilience. Yet most modern gratitude focuses on feeling better; not recognizing our fundamental dependence. We give thanks for abundance but rarely acknowledge the Source of that abundance. We express appreciation to the air, feel thankful "to the universe," or simply bask in our good fortune—all while carefully avoiding any acknowledgment of an actual Source who might make claims on our lives. I know because I took this exact approach before becoming observant.

Ancient Jewish wisdom anticipated this shallow method millennia ago. The solution? Transform every moment of benefit into conscious recognition of its Source. That’s why Jews make blessings for everything—waking up, eating food, even using the bathroom. These aren't just quaint traditions. They’re sophisticated tools for maintaining perspective in a world that pulls us toward spiritual amnesia.

To fully appreciate the power of a blessing, we must delve into Parshas Eikev, where we find the Torah’s first and only explicitly mandated blessing: Birkas HaMazon - Grace After Meals.

Timing is Everything

After Moses describes the bountiful land of Israel, he entreats the people, "And you will eat and be sated, and you shall bless Hashem, your God, for the good land He has given you" (Devarim 8:10). One curious detail should jump out: why after the meal? Intuition suggests we should bless before eating, and indeed, the Talmud derives that since God commanded a blessing after, we must certainly bless before (HaMotzi). Yet why did the Torah specifically prescribe a blessing after the meal?

The Torah answers this question in the very next lines, delivering a masterclass in human psychology:

"Beware that you do not forget Hashem, your God... lest you eat and be sated... and your heart grows haughty, and you forget the Lord, your God... and you will say to yourself, 'My strength and the might of my hand has accumulated this wealth for me'" (Devarim 8:11-17).

The Torah identifies two traps that ensnare us in a false sense of self-sufficiency: satiation (“Lest you eat and be sated”) and human effort (“My strength and the might of my hand”). Let's examine how these dynamics play out specifically with bread—the food that triggers our obligation for Grace After Meals.

Puffed Up With Pride

1. Satiation - Bread served as the nutritional cornerstone of ancient civilization. Unlike fruits or vegetables that provided temporary nourishment, bread delivered deep, lasting satiation that could carry someone through a full day of labor. Therefore, after eating a bread meal, a person would reach peak satiety—and with it, peak spiritual vulnerability. A full stomach breeds dangerous contentment—the feeling that we need nothing and no one. This phenomenon represents the flip side of the saying, "There are no atheists in a foxhole." When our stomachs are full, our bank accounts flush, or our goals achieved, we're most vulnerable to the intoxicating illusion of self-sufficiency.

2. Human Effort - Before supermarkets and industrial agriculture, bread production required an elaborate chain of human labor: tilling, planting, watering, weeding, harvesting, winnowing, milling, kneading, and baking. Each step demanded skill, timing, and backbreaking work. With so much human effort invested, we become prone to the illusion that our own hands created our sustenance.

   The harder we work, the more difficult it becomes to see God’s hand in our lives. The entrepreneur who works eighteen-hour days struggles to acknowledge the market timing that made success possible. The student who studies relentlessly claims full credit for academic achievement, forgetting the functioning mind that made learning possible.

That's why the Torah mandates its most elaborate blessing specifically after eating bread—the food that combines maximum satisfaction with maximum human effort. When we're most content and feel most accomplished, we're most likely to forget the Source. The blessing reminds us that “not by bread alone does man live, but rather by all that arises from the mouth of God” (Devarim 8:3).

A Fence Against Arrogance

Rabeinu Bachya and the Ramban, two medieval Torah giants, draw a fascinating parallel in their commentary on Grace After Meals. They compare Birkas Hamazon to the commandment to build a fence around your roof to prevent fatal falls.1

Why did these great commentators choose this specific comparison? Of all the mitzvos they could have referenced, why connect Grace After Meals to rooftop safety? Their parallel suggests a profound insight: just as physical barriers prevent fatal falls, gratitude practices prevent spiritual ones. The blessing serves as a safety mechanism, activated precisely at the point of peak danger to keep us connected to God when we’re most tempted to turn away.

A Life of Blessings

This surgical precision in addressing our psychological vulnerabilities extends beyond bread. The Talmud reasons that if we’re obligated to bless after eating and being satisfied, the state where gratitude feels least natural, then all the more so, we’re obligated to bless before eating, while still hungry, when the sense of need is already present. This is the source of the blessing we make before eating bread: HaMotzi. From this principle, the Sages expanded the practice further by mandating blessings on everything, thereby transforming Jewish life into a cascade of conscious gratitude. Before drinking wine, we acknowledge the One who “creates the fruit of the vine.” Upon seeing a rainbow, we praise the One who “remembers the covenant.” Even after using the bathroom, we thank God for the intricate design that allows our bodies to function.

These aren't empty rituals but recognition technologies, constantly recalibrating our perspective toward reality's true Source.

Living the Practice

Nothing illustrates this better than what happens at our Shabbat table every week. After my wife devotes hours preparing our Shabbat meals—planning menus, shopping for ingredients, cooking elaborate dishes—she starts the meal by blessing God who “brought bread forth from the earth” and concludes by reciting Grace After Meals:

“Blessed are You, Hashem, our God, King of the universe, Who, in His goodness, nourishes the entire world with grace, with kindness, and with compassion...”

Wait… God didn’t make the bread – She did! She nourished all of us with her cooking! Yes, she did, but only through the grace of God. The blessing doesn’t diminish her contribution—it elevates it. Even as I marvel at her skill and dedication, she places her efforts within their proper cosmic context. Even as I marvel at her skill and dedication, she places her efforts within their proper cosmic context, becoming a partner in divine creativity rather than claiming to be its sole author.

Beyond the Table

But Grace After Meals isn't meant to stay at the dinner table. It offers a blueprint for approaching all of life's satisfactions. After closing a major deal, receiving a promotion, or achieving a long-sought goal, pause. Acknowledge the countless seen and unseen factors that made this moment possible. Thank the people who contributed, but also recognize the deeper Source that orchestrated the entire symphony of circumstances.

In a culture obsessed with self-made success stories, this practice offers profound counter-programming. It doesn't diminish human agency but places it within its proper context: we are powerful, but we are not sovereign. We achieve, but we are not self-made. We create, but we are not the Creator.

This week, experiment with bringing conscious gratitude to your moments of satisfaction and success. Let each achievement become a doorway to deeper connection. In doing so, you’ll discover that true fulfillment comes not from taking credit, but from taking your place within the magnificent web of existence that makes every human accomplishment possible.

Shabbat Shalom!

Avraham