Tag: Torah

Adapted from: The Master of Mercy…and Me by Rabbi Yechiel Spero

אֵ־ל מֶלֶךְ יוֹשֵׁב עַל כִּסֵּא רַחֲמִים 

 G-d, King Who sits on the Throne of Mercy.

This introductory tefillah, which leads into the Yud Gimmel Middos, comes from the siddur of R’ Amram Gaon. Like Keil Erech Apayim, it sets the stage for everything that follows.

Keil — This Name conveys two powerful truths. First, as a Melech, Hashem is the Baal HaKoach; there is nothing beyond His power — nothing we can conceive, and even that which we can’t begin to imagine. But Keil also reflects His nature of pure Kindness. As Tomer Devorah (a most significant sefer on the Yud Gimmel Middos shel Rachamim) explains, He is a King of inexhaustible Chessed. His goodness extends to the farthest corners of the universe, touching even those who feel distant from Him.

Yosheiv — He sits. Shelah HaKadosh explains that this word tells us that Hashem is always ready. Always waiting. Always poised to hear the cries of His people. Always prepared to turn toward us the moment we turn toward Him.

Al Kisei Rachamim — He sits on the Throne of Mercy. Ready to take Din, strict Judgment, and transfer it to a place of Compassion. He doesn’t sit in Judgment with harshness. He sits with a desire to forgive, to heal, to draw close.

This is how we begin.

With a Father Who conveys power and Kindness; Who is there for us; Who is ready to forgive us when we repent.

A Story: Why Didn’t I?

Before the skies over Europe darkened with smoke and screams, there was a flicker of hope. A miracle called the Kindertransport. Ten thousand Jewish children, plucked from the jaws of Nazi Germany and Austria, were brought to safety in England. Away from danger, away from the gas that would fill the air soon after.

Years later, the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) invited one of those survivors — a man now in his eighties — to share his story on the radio. He was twelve at the time of the transport. And though many years had passed, there was one moment, one memory that never left him.

When the children were first brought to England, they cried, clinging to memories of home and the arms of their mothers, now thousands of miles away.

Some of them adjusted. Some even smiled again.

But there was one boy who refused.

It made no difference what they gave him — candy, toys, comfort — he never stopped crying. His pain could not be soothed. Finally, the caretakers asked him, “What do you want?”

“I want to speak to the king,” the boy answered confidently.

“The king of England?”

“Yes, I want a private meeting with him.”

Instead of dismissing him, the caretakers acquiesced. “All right, but if you’re going to meet the king, you must prepare. There is a way to walk. A way to speak. A way to behave before royalty.”

For three weeks, the little boy practiced. He studied. He learned. And he believed.

King George VI had recently begun his reign. An unlikely king — born with a stutter, never meant for the throne — was now charged with holding together a nation at war. Still, in those first months, the king made it his mission to visit the people of his kingdom.

The big day arrived. The boy was brought to the city square, where crowds waited behind barricades to catch a glimpse of the king’s carriage. But as the crowd grew, the boy realized: He would not have a private meeting. He was just going to wave.

No. That wasn’t enough. So, as the royal carriage passed, he jumped the barricade.

He ran with all his might, a twelve-year-old boy with tears in his eyes and hope in his heart. But the royal guards tackled him to the ground and placed him in handcuffs.

The crowd gasped in surprise. So did the king. Peering out of the carriage, King George saw the boy and ordered, “Let him go.” He motioned to bring the boy into the carriage.

The boy stood up, shaken, his eyes wide. “Why did you run to me?” the king asked.

At first, the boy couldn’t answer. But then, through his thick accent and halting English, he said, “I was brought to England. I left my parents behind. I miss them. I need them.”

The king, himself a man who had once struggled to speak, understood.

“And what do you want from me?” asked the king.

“You’re the king of England,” the boy said. “Please… bring my parents to me.”

“We’re at war with Germany. That’s not something I can just do.”

“But you’re the king! You can do anything!”

The king’s eyes softened. “Don’t cry,” he said. “I promise I will try. I will do everything I can. Just… don’t cry.”

Two days later, a knock was heard at the orphanage door.

It was the boy’s parents.

Somehow, they had been brought out of Germany. Reunited with their son. Saved.

Back in the radio studio, decades later, the survivor finished telling his story. Then the tears came rushing back. “I will never forgive myself,” he admitted.

The host was puzzled. “Why? You were the one who asked. You were the one who was saved.”

“No,” the man said. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t me. I wasn’t the one who jumped the barricade. That boy, that hero, that child of courage — it wasn’t me. I was there. I watched. I stood frozen. And I will never forgive myself.

“Why didn’t I?”

As we prepare for the Days of Awe, we must know that the King is in the field. He is walking among us. Accessible. Listening.

And we, too, are standing behind the barricade — unsure, timid, hesitant.

But what if we were to jump?

What if we were to dare cry out with sincerity, “Ribbono shel Olam — I need You! I miss You! I want to be close to You again!”

What if we were to dare ask for the seemingly impossible?

What if we were to believe, really believe, that the King can do anything? 

○   TAKEAWAY   ○

Don’t let the moment pass. Don’t look back and ask yourself, “Why didn’t I?”

Jump the barricade. Now is the time.

Adapted from: The Master of Mercy…and Me by Rabbi Yechiel Spero

תַּאֲזִין שַׁוְעָתֵנוּ וְתַקְשִׁיב מֶנּוּ מַאֲמַר: כְּיוֹם וַיִּקְרָא בְשֵׁם ה’, וְשָׁם נֶאֱמַר: 

Give heed to our cry and be attentive to our declaration, as on the day “He called out with the Name Hashem,” and there it was said…

After we declare “Keil Erech Apayim Atah,” and acknowledge Hashem as the Master of Mercy Who has shown us the path to repentance, we move on to the next seven lines. Each one is a plea for Compassion, each one reflecting a different facet of Mercy.

The seventh and last one is, “Taazin shavaseinu, v’sakshiv menu maamar…Give heed to our cry and be attentive to our declaration.”

This is the final step. The deepest level of tefillah comes without words; it is shav’ah. A cry. A groan. A soundless plea that comes from the deepest place.

“Taazin — Give heed.” Bend down, so to speak. Come close.

We depend on You.

Just You.

The Pnei Menachem shared a meaningful story, told to him by Dr. Eizelbach, the personal physician of his father, the Imrei Emes of Ger.

Before Dr. Eizelbach came to care for tzaddikim, he trained under one of the greatest medical minds in the world, a master surgeon in Vienna, the capital of medicine at the time.

This story took place roughly a century ago, when medicine was far more art than science. There were no MRIs. No advanced antibiotics. No heart-lung machines or modern monitoring tools. Surgeries were high-risk procedures. Survival often depended as much on intuition as on skill. Every movement in the operating room could make the difference between life and death.

One day, Dr. Eizelbach, then a young intern, was asked by his mentor to assist in a particularly delicate operation. The patient’s stomach needed to be carefully sutured, and the surgeon needed another steady pair of hands to hold the two torn parts of the organ together while he stitched.

The room was still. Every breath measured. Every hand gloved and steady. Dr. Eizelbach focused completely on his task, his fingers applying gentle but firm pressure to the sides of the stomach, as his mentor sewed the tissue back together.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain shoot through his hand. Real blinding pain.

His mentor, absorbed in the rhythm of stitching, had accidentally pushed the needle through the patient’s tissue, and then straight into his assistant’s hand. Though his mentor took it out right away, Dr. Eizelbach still suffered a piercing wound as a result of this medical mishap.

Any normal person would have gasped. Screamed. Pulled back reflexively in alarm and pain.

Not Dr. Eizelbach.

With superhuman self-control, he said not a word. He didn’t recoil. He didn’t move.

He knew that even a small jolt could cost the patient his life — a movement that disrupted the surgeon’s concentration, a tear in the delicate operation. So, he bit his lip. And stood firm.

After the surgery, he mentioned the incident to his mentor, to simply explain why he hadn’t reacted.

The senior doctor was flummoxed. “You mean you felt the pain? The entire time?”

He nodded.

The surgeon gazed at him in awe and said, “You will be an exceptional physician one day.” Slowly, he added, “Come. There’s something I want to show you, something I’ve never shown another soul.”

Flattered and curious, Dr. Eizelbach followed his mentor to a private inner office.

The great surgeon opened a locked drawer and took out a sealed envelope. Dr. Eizelbach peeped at it curiously.

His mentor held it up and said, “Inside this envelope is a list of every patient I’ve seen or operated on in the past month. Next to each name, I wrote a prediction, who I believe will live and who will not.”

Dr. Eizelbach was shocked. How could the senior doctor possibly know? These were complicated cases; some critical, some uncertain.

The doctor continued, “Take this envelope. In two weeks, open it. And see if what I’ve written holds true.”

Two weeks later, Dr. Eizelbach opened it. To his astonishment, it was exactly as predicted. Every person the surgeon had said would survive had lived. And every person he said would not had passed away.

Dr. Eizelbach returned to his mentor, both shaken and intrigued. “How on earth did you know? What was your method? You’re not a prophet; how did you do it?”

The doctor revealed the secret. “It’s the eyes, Dr. Eizelbach. When a patient walks into my room, I look into their eyes. And I can tell. Those who have hope in their eyes — they live. Those who have already given up — they rarely make it. The eyes tell me everything.”

The Pnei Menachem explained what this means for us.

In medicine. In life and death. And in our spiritual lives.

So many of us come to Elul and Tishrei wounded, spiritually unwell. We carry years of struggle, distance, coldness.

Sometimes, we wonder: Do we still have a chance?

The key lies in the eyes. As we say in Mussaf of Rosh Hashanah, “Eineinu lecha teluyos — Our eyes look toward and depend upon You.”

With hope. With yearning. With the silent cry of a heart… we will get there. 

TAKEAWAY

If you believe you will get there, then you will get there. As long as your eyes keep looking Upward.

Adapted from: In The Rebbe’s Room by Yisroel Besser

In Vizhnitz, the Yamim Tovim were not just annual occurrences, great days that came and left. Rather, all twelve months of the year one could feel the awe of Rosh Hashanah and the teshuvah of Yom Kippur, the joy of Succos and the cheirus of Pesach.

If there was a reference to one of the Yamim Tovim in the weekly parashah, the Rebbe would seize the opportunity and speak about it at the tish. He might become passionate about Chanukah on a hot summer Friday night or express his longing for the Pesach matzah on an autumn Shabbos day.

The Rebbe was excited to mention any Yom Tov, but it was especially true with regard to the Yamim Noraim: Months before Tishrei, the Rebbe was already preparing for and anticipating the season.

“From my zeide, the Imrei Chaim, I learned that one can already be awaiting Rosh Hashanah months before it arrives,” the Slonimer Rebbe once told R’ Menachem Leizer. He recalled that when the Rebbe encountered a pasuk, whatever the parashah or topic being discussed, that appears in the nusach of Malchuyos, Zichronos, and Shofaros recited in the Shemoneh Esrei of Rosh Hashanah, the Rebbe would sing it in the tune of the Yamim Noraim. “And already in mid-Sivan,” the Slonimer Rebbe testified, “you could hear that it was coming from deep inside him, that he was already holding there.”

R’ Chaim Yaakov Goldwicht spent Shabbos Mevarchim for Rosh Chodesh Tammuz with the Rebbe, and throughout his spoken Torah, the Rebbe referenced the upcoming days of judgment, singing out parts of the tefillah with the proper nusach.

After the tish, the Ponevezher talmid reflected, “Some of us have to toil an entire Chodesh Elul to acquire the feeling that the Vizhnitzer Rebbe was able to instill in us during a single tish!”

In Chodesh Elul, the Rebbe was completely preoccupied with his preparations for Rosh Hashanah. 

Once the days of Selichos actually arrived, the feeling in the Rebbe’s room was different. One night, the line was particularly long and the Rebbe’s door was open until late at night. The early-morning Selichos did not leave the Rebbe much time to rest, and R’ Menachem Leizer prepared a cup of coffee for the Rebbe before Shacharis. The Rebbe acknowledged the efforts of the meshamesh, but he did not drink from the coffee. “Now is not the time for this,” the Rebbe said.

On the first day of Selichos, the Rebbe would go to daven at his father’s tziyun. He was always accompanied by a large crowd of chassidim. After saying Tehillim, the Rebbe would wait for them to leave and remain in the ohel by himself, with just the meshamesh there. Then he would sing the tefillah of Heyei Im Pifiyos, a special request made by the baal tefillah at that time of year, the hope that Hashem will “be with the mouths of the emissaries” of His people. 

The Rebbe explained his need for privacy to R’ Menachem Leizer: He did not want the chassidim to think that it was a Vizhnitzer minhag to sing at a kever, for it is not. Rather, it was just the Rebbe’s personal practice.

As tangible as the awe was during these days, the Rebbe himself preferred not to use the term “Yamim Noraim,” translated as Days of Awe. Instead, he referred to the period as the heilege teg, “days of holiness.”

“The focus should be purely on coronating the Ribbono shel Olam as our King,” the Rebbe explained to R’ Menachem Leizer, “and the awe is the consequence of being mamlich Him. There is certainly awe, the days are certainly nora, but that is not the goal — it is the outcome.” 

Adapted from: Outlooks & Insights by Rabbi Zev Leff

וְלָקַחְתָּ מֵרֵאשִׁית כָּל פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר תָּבִיא מֵאַרְצְךָ אֲשֶׁר ה’ אֱלֹקֶיךָ נֹתֵן לָךְ וְשַׂמְתָּ בַטֶּנֶא וְהָלַכְתָּ אֶל הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִבְחַר ה’ אֱלֹקֶיךָ לְשַׁכֵּן שְׁמוֹ שָׁם — 

You shall take of the first of every fruit of the ground that you bring in from your Land that Hashem, your G-d, gives you, and you shall put it in a basket and go to the place that Hashem, your G-d, will choose, to make His Name rest there (Devarim 26:2)

The Torah commands us to take the first fruits and bring them to the Kohen as a thanksgiving offering to Hashem. Elsewhere we are enjoined to dedicate all our firsts to Hashem – the first shearings of the wool, the first of the dough, the firstborn of man and animal, etc. Why did the Torah not command us to offer the best of our produce and not the first?

The importance of the first lies in the fact that it is the root and foundation of all that follows. The foundation of a building must be totally free of imperfections. A hairline crack in the foundation endangers the entire building, whereas that same crack in a wall on the fourth floor would not be significant. Similarly, with respect to everything having to do with kedushah, the beginning must be holy and pure if holiness and purity is to emanate from it. Any imperfection in the root will manifest itself a hundredfold in what grows out of it. Therefore, we dedicate all firsts to Hashem to firmly establish the foundation and root of all that follows.

The Gemara (Bava Metzia 85b) relates that when R’ Chiya reintroduced Torah in a generation in which it had been forgotten, he began by planting flax. From the flax he made nets to capture deer. Upon the skins of those deer he wrote the Five Books of the Torah. He would then travel from town to town teaching Torah to five boys in each town. With each he learned one book of Chumash. To six older boys he taught one order of Mishnah each. Each then taught the others what he had learned, and in this way, Torah was once again established. 

Why was it necessary for R’ Chiya to plant the flax and make the nets. Couldn’t he have bought these? The answer is that every new beginning is the construction of a foundation. Only if every step is taken with holy and pure intentions will the result be holy and pure. 

During the Ten Days of Repentance from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, it is customary to be extra stringent in one’s observance of mitzvos. Thus even one who is not usually strict about eating kosher bread baked by a non-Jewish baker (pas palter) should nevertheless be strict during that period. At first glance this practice seems difficult to understand, for it applies even to a person who intends to eat pas palter the rest of the year. Are we trying to fool Hashem into thinking we are more pious than we actually are in order to secure a favorable judgment?

The significance of this conduct lies in the fact that Rosh Hashanah is not just the beginning of the year, but reishis hashanah — the foundation and root of the year. Each of these ten days must be treated as firsts, dedicated to Hashem in purity and holiness. Hence the extra stringencies, the more intense davening and learning, are not merely for show. They are designed to lay the foundation for the entire year. Even if the building of the coming year is not constructed of such quality materials, the foundation will give it strength.

Thus did the wisest of men say, tov acharis hadavar meirishiso (Koheles 7:8), which is usually translated as “The end of the matter is greater than the beginning,” but can also be understood, “A good end emanates from the beginning.” 

Adapted from: A Most Meaningful Viduy by Rabbi Yechiel Spero

הֶעֱוִינוּ — We made the path crooked. We set others off course. Maybe without meaning to. Maybe with a joke, a gesture, or even a silence that spoke too loud.

וְהִרְשַׁעְנוּ — We made it worse. We pulled others down. Not only did we stumble, but we made it harder for others to stand.

הֶעֱוִינוּ. וְהִרְשַׁעְנוּ. Two words. Two confessions. But they don’t focus on our actions. It’s more about how we have influenced others.

It’s the power of השפעה, influence.  השפעהcomes from the word שיפוע, an incline, a ramp. What’s placed at the top of a hill eventually rolls down. Meaning: what’s inside me will affect you. What drips from my heart will land in yours. What rolls off my tongue will echo in someone else’s ears — and maybe shape the way they live.

We may not wear the title “leader,” but we lead every day. A younger sibling watches you. A friend listens to how you talk. A classmate sees how you daven, how you dress, how you laugh, how you react. And it shapes them.

The only question is: Are we the reason someone bent a little lower… or stood a little taller? 

And that brings us to a story. 

The United States Marines are known as one of the most elite military forces in the world. The soldiers go through the toughest training and the most demanding exercises. One commander of a top combat unit decided he wanted to raise his team’s performance to the next level. And he planned to use their most dominant trait: their competitive spirit.

He gathered the best soldiers in his unit and announced a challenge: “You will be split into two teams and you’ll compete against each other in a complex, high-level combat course. This course will push you to the limit, and we’ll see which team performs best.”

Both teams immediately entered intense preparation mode. They trained harder than ever, drilled every maneuver, and became even sharper and faster. 

The night before the competition, each team leader gave his group a motivational talk. Team A’s commander stood before his men and said, “The course you’re about to face is extremely difficult. You’ve trained hard, but this challenge is harder than anything you’ve done. Some parts will test you physically. Others will try to destroy you mentally. You might get hurt. You might not even finish. I just hope you can make it to the end.”

The soldiers looked at each other, worried. Were they really ready? Meanwhile, Team B’s commander took a completely different tone. “This won’t be easy,” he admitted, “but you’ve been preparing for this for years. Your training, your mental toughness, and your teamwork are all unmatched. I believe in every single one of you. I know you have what it takes. Work together, push through, and you’ll finish strong.”

The soldiers of Team B felt the energy. They were pumped. Ready.

The next morning, the two teams lined up at the start. The whistle blew. The race began.

They climbed cliffs. They crawled through mud. They hauled heavy loads up hills. The trail turned dangerously slippery, and it took everything to keep moving.

In time, Team A started slipping. Some fell; their energy was gone. The doubts planted in their minds had taken root. Every obstacle looked like a mountain.

At the same time, Team B encouraged each other. They lifted each other up — literally. No one moved forward until the last one climbed up. They believed they could finish, and that drove them.

Finally, after many hours, Team B crossed the finish line, exhausted but victorious. Team A didn’t even finish. 

After giving them time to rest, the division commander called both teams together. “I want to tell you something,” he began. “You all trained the same way. You’ve all completed the same missions in the past. So why did only one team succeed today? Let me remind you: A year ago, you did this same exact course. The only difference? You did it at night, in total darkness. And you all passed. Every single one of you.

“That’s right. You already did this impossible’ course. So what happened? It was the power of words. Yesterday, I told the two team leaders to give very different speeches. One to encourage. One to challenge. One built confidence. One planted doubt. The rest you saw yourselves.

“Team A, don’t be discouraged. You are capable of far more. In fact, you were all handpicked to go on to officer training. You will be leaders one day. 

“You now understand: Words matter. What you say can pull someone down, or lift them up. That was the true lesson of this mission.”

As I say Viduy…

…I will keep in mind that I have the power to change others. I will try to strengthen and uplift, not weaken or belittle.

Because someone out there might finish or quit the race — only because of me. 

Adapted from: Rav Yaakov Bender on Chumash 2

לֹא יָבֹא עַמּוֹנִי וּמוֹאָבִי בִּקְהַל ה’ גַּם דּוֹר עֲשִׂירִי לֹא יָבֹא לָהֶם בִּקְהַל ה’ עַד עוֹלָם. עַל דְּבַר אֲשֶׁר לֹא קִדְּמוּ אֶתְכֶם בַּלֶּחֶם וּבַמַּיִם בַּדֶּרֶךְ בְּצֵאתְכֶם מִמִּצְרָיִם.

An Ammoni and a Moavi shall not enter the congregation of Hashem, even the tenth generation shall not enter the congregation of Hashem, to eternity, because of the fact that they did not greet you with bread and water on the road when you were leaving Mitzrayim (23:4-5).

Even though the children of the nations of the world have the option of converting and marrying into Klal Yisrael, the sons of Ammon and Moav are not allowed to do so, even the tenth generation.

In the next pasuk, the Torah tells us why: Because they did not greet you with bread and water on the road when you were leaving Mitzrayim.

They are eternally banned from marrying into our nation, but converts from Mitzrayim, who are also precluded from marrying into the congregation of Hashem, may join starting with the third generation.

Why are the nations of Ammon and Moav penalized so much more severely than Mitzrayim, who oppressed and brutalized us so?

Because Mitzrayim extended hospitality toward us. The children of Yaakov Avinu found respite there from the hunger. Yosef was royalty. They had yeshivos in Goshen.

Then the servitude started, but still, we were guests in their land, and for this, their schar remains.

The smallest act lives on and the Ribbono shel Olam pays back.

But there is something here beyond the schar as well. Ammon and Moav, children of Lot, had been exposed to the chessed of Avraham Avinu, but they did not reciprocate, acting with cruelty and spite.

Cruelty of heart goes from generation to generation, as does kindness.

The Derashos HaRan asks why Avraham Avinu preferred that Yitzchak marry a girl from his family rather than a daughter of Canaan: Were they not all the same idol-worshipers?

Dei’os, says the Ran, ideology, is not transmitted from parent to child, but character traits remain in a family.

To be a Yid is to serve with heart. Rachmana liba ba’ei, the Merciful One desires the heart. Ammon and Moav, lacking in heart, cannot fully be a part of us, but Mitzrayim, who has shown kindness, can eventually join Khal Hashem.

The Torah never explicitly tells us to be good people, but every din and halachah is a means of refining our character. One of the three inherent characteristics of a Yid is gomlei chassadim, people who instinctively do chessed.

R’ Moshe Feinstein once said that he was not a bigger meikil, more lenient than other poskim, in areas of helping agunos. Rather, he said, he sees the tears of the women who come before him and he does not allow himself to forget them, exerting himself over the sugya and poskim again and again in the hope of granting them some relief from their plight.

Rachmana, the Ribbono shel Olam is called, and the Torah meant to imbue us with that compassion.

My brother-in-law R’ Chaim Epstein once gave a shmuess to chassanim, discussing shalom bayis. He used the example of a sincere chassan who wants to have a happy home, so he reads all the guides on marriage and how to show respect for a wife.

Not long after the chasunah, he and his wife are walking and the woman’s shoe falls off and tumbles down the stairs. She stands there, with one shoe off and one shoe on, looking helpless while he stares right back, unsure what to do.

Finally, he shrugs and says, “The books never discuss this situation.”

R’ Chaim went on to explain that being a good person is not a list of “dos” and “don’ts,” and that a young man with seichel understands what to do in that situation as well, even if he was not specifically prepared for it.

That’s why we learn Torah, and through doing so, we become more refined, more kind, and more sensitive.

Those whose hearts are blocked by callousness have no connection to Torah, and thus, they will never be a part of us. 

Adapted from: A Daily Dose of Preparation for Yamim Noraim by Rabbi David Sutton

לְכוּ אִכְלוּ מַשְׁמַנִּים וּשְׁתוּ מַמְתַקִּים וְשִׁלְחוּ מָנוֹת לְאֵין נָכוֹן לוֹ כִּי קָדוֹשׁ הַיּוֹם לַאֲדֹנֵינוּ 

וְאַל תֵּעָצֵבוּ כִּי חֶדְוַת ה’ הִיא מָעֻזְּכֶם — 

Go, eat rich foods and drink sweet beverages, and send portions to those who have nothing prepared. For today is sacred to our L-rd. Do not be sad; the enjoyment of Hashem is your strength (Nechemiah 8:10).

This verse was spoken on the very first Rosh Hashanah after the Jewish people returned to Yerushalayim following seventy years of exile in Bavel. The people gathered in the plaza before the Shaar HaMayim, the Water Gate, and asked Ezra to read to them from the Sefer Torah, and he granted their request. Soon, the Jews began to cry, as they realized they had been neglecting the mitzvos written in the Sefer Torah; they understood how many halachos they had forgotten during Galus Bavel. Ezra, Nechemiah, and the Leviim consoled them and told them not to be sad on Rosh Hashanah.

But, we may ask: If the Jews felt overwhelming regret for their sins, which is a good thing, why did Nechemiah and the others tell them not to be sad? It was Rosh Hashanah, after all, and they were demonstrating such powerful repentance, to the point of tears.

Because, as Nechemiah continued in our pasuk, חֶדְוַת ה’ הִיא מָעֻזְּכֶם — The enjoyment of Hashem is your strength. Our strength lies in rejoicing with Hashem, in serving Him out of simchah.

For this reason, after blowing the shofar, we recite the pasuk (Tehillim 89:16): אַשְׁרֵי הָעָם יֹדְעֵי תְרוּעָה ה’ בְּאוֹר פָּנֶיךָ יְהַלֵּכוּן — Praiseworthy is the people who know the shofar’s cry; Hashem, in the light of Your countenance they walk. As mentioned, R’ Wolbe notes that this is a pasuk of joy; we are thrilled with our good fortune. How fortunate are we to know the secret of the shofar, the way to stir ourselves to repentance when we hear its sound! Furthermore, when we listen to the call of the shofar and repent, we merit walking in the light of Hashem’s countenance. As the next pasuk in Tehillim says: בְּשִׁמְךָ יְגִילוּן כָּל הַיּוֹם וּבְצִדְקָתְךָ יָרוּמוּ — In Your Name they will rejoice all day long, and through Your righteousness they will be exalted. Who wouldn’t long to rejoice along with Hashem all day?

R’ Wolbe states that at the time of the shofar blowing, our Sages chose to recite verses of joy, because there is no greater joy than accepting the yoke of Hashem’s Kingship, which is what we do on Rosh Hashanah. We should, in fact, be dancing in the middle of our Mussaf prayers. When we say עָלֵינוּ לְשַׁבֵּחַ לַאֲדוֹן הַכֹּל — It is our duty to praise the Master of all, we should stop and transform the moment into a Simchas Torah of sorts. Yet, at the same time, we still feel eimas haDin, the awe of judgment — which is why we don’t dance.

It is fitting for the days of repentance to begin with accepting the yoke of Hashem’s Kingship with joy. After this foundational acceptance, we can then move on to repentance for specific sins, which culminates on Yom Kippur.

The concept of accepting Hashem’s Kingship in joy can also be found in our evening prayers, when we say, וּמַלְכוּתוֹ בְּרָצוֹן קִבְּלוּ עֲלֵיהֶם מֹשֶׁה וּבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לְךָ עָנוּ שִׁירָה בְּשִׂמְחָה רַבָּה — And His Kingship they accepted upon themselves willingly. Moshe and the Bnei Yisrael raised their voices to You in song with abundant gladness and sang a song to You.

This took place at the time of Krias Yam Suf. And what verse did Klal Yisrael exclaim in this state of joy, as they willingly accepted Hashem’s Kingship upon themselves?

The verse that became the first verse of the Malchuyos of Mussaf of Rosh Hashanah: ה’ יִמְלֹךְ לְעֹלָם וָעֶד — Hashem shall reign for all eternity (Shemos 15:18).

The objective isn’t to serve Hashem with bitterness or sadness. On the contrary, the aim is to be thrilled to be an eved Hashem, a servant of God, one who carries His yoke willingly and gladly. 

Adapted from: Flashes of Inspiration by Rabbi Shlomo Landau

It was a sweltering evening in Bnei Brak in 1991. A middle-aged gentleman slowly made his way to Rechov Chazon Ish #5. He found the apartment that he was looking for and gave a gentle knock on the door.

A moment later the door was opened by none other than Harav Aharon Leib Shteinman who immediately recognized the man as one of the local Yidden who frequently came to collect tzedakah to support his family.

As he usually did, Rav Shteinman reached into his pocket, took out a few shekel, and kindly handed it to the Yid wishing him much hatzlachah.

The fellow accepted the money with words of thanks on his lips and headed to the next apartment. 

A few minutes later, there was a knock on Rav Shteinman’s door. Once again, Rav Shteinman opened the door and was surprised to see the same man. With sensitivity he indicated that he had just given him a donation, but this time the man asked if he could come in, as there was something important that he needed to discuss with the Rosh Hayeshivah. 

Rav Shteinman warmly welcomed the Yid into his home and the man shared that he was hoping that Rav Shteinman could assist him with getting his son accepted in Yeshivah Ketanah of Ponevezh, where Rav Shteinman served as Rosh Hayeshivah. 

As always, Rav Shteinman replied that acceptances were under the jurisdiction of Rav Michel Yehuda Lefkowitz and that it was not his decision. Additionally, the yeshivah was already full to capacity and that the chances of being accepted were slim to none.

Rav Shteinman continued, “I am a bit confused, just two minutes earlier you knocked on my door to collect tzedakah and you didn’t mention anything about your son. Was your son’s yeshivah a sudden after thought”?

The Yid stammered and replied, “When I first knocked on your door it was to discuss my son’s yeshivah future, but before I even had a chance to say anything, you had reached into your pocket and kindly given me tzedakah. So I decided to continue on and collect from your neighbors and then come back on my way down.

When Rav Shteinman heard this his face turned white. He suddenly realized that when the man had initially knocked at the door it was not to collect tzedakah as usual, but rather to discuss his son. 

“Oy vey!” Rav Shteinman moaned, “I automatically identified you as a tzedakah collector when in truth you had come to discuss something of such importance; your son’s future. I beg you for mechilah. Woe is me for slighting your honor…”

The man immediately responded that he was not at all hurt and that there was absolutely no reason to ask forgiveness. 

“Since I often knock at your door to collect tzedakah and you always respond generously, there was absolutely no reason for you to assume differently.” 

Even so, Rav Shteinman was beside himself and would not accept the explanation.

Rav Shteinman responded, “Listen, I was not careful enough with your honor and therefore it is incumbent on me to figure out a way to make this right. 

You should know that I never get involved with acceptances to Ponevezh Yeshivah Ketanah, but this time I am going to make an exception and im yirtzeh Hashem do everything I can to ensure that he is accepted.” 

From that moment on, the son became a real priority in Rav Shteinman’s life and Rav Shteinman ensured the bachur was accepted into the Yeshivah Ketanah and joined his shiur. He personally followed the boy’s progress daily, showing deep care and treating him like a son.

When it was time for Yeshivah Gedolah, Rav Shteinman again got involved, guiding the decision and ensuring his acceptance to Ponevezh — a rare move for him.

The bachur thrived, becoming a star talmid, then a respected marbitz Torah.

It is truly incredible that this was all a result of a totally unintentional assumption by Rav Shteinman, and his regret that he may have slighted the fellow.

Rav Shteinman’s hanhagah raises the bar on how we must conduct ourselves when interacting with others. 

Adapted from: Chessed Under Fire by Rabbi Nachman Seltzer

Just because there was a war going on and Israel was fighting on five different fronts didn’t mean that the terrorists inside the country had stopped trying to harm Jews. With the army preoccupied, they saw opportunities to attack innocent civilians. And while most plots were stopped — some slipped through.

One such attack took place at the entrance to Yerushalayim. Several were killed, and others badly injured.

“On the day of the attack,” Shai recalls, “I was at Hadassah Hospital and entered the room of a chareidi girl who had been wounded in the attack earlier that day. Her mother sat at her bedside.

“What can I do for you that will cheer you up?” he asked gently.

He expected her to ask for a computer, or perhaps a new jacket — hers had been ripped by a bullet. But her answer caught him completely off guard.

“There’s only one thing I want,” she said, eyes brimming with tears. “My father is a rosh kollel. He travels to America often to raise funds. It’s hard when he’s away, for us and for him. If you could somehow help him stay in Israel without needing to travel, I’d be so happy.”

Shai was deeply moved. Of all the things she could have asked for, she chose something so selfless — to give her father peace of mind so he could stay home and learn.

“First things first,” Shai said with a smile. “I’m giving you money to buy a new jacket. And now, what’s your father’s phone number?”

She gave it, and moments later, Shai was speaking with him.

“Shalom aleichem. I’m here with your daughter. She didn’t ask for anything for herself — she just wants to help you. How many avreichim are in your kollel?”

The man gave the number.

“Great. We’re wiring you twenty-six thousand dollars right now. It’s 2:30 p.m. You’ll see it in your account by 4:30.”

Shai had helped distribute millions for Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l over the years, especially before Yom Tov. But the joy he felt in transferring those $26,000 was unlike anything else. It was a zechus — an honor — to help a rosh kollel spend more time at home and learning Torah.

As he hung up, the hospital room filled with spontaneous song. Everyone — family, visitors, Shai’s helpers — burst into “Mah Ashiv LaShem,” praising Hashem for the opportunity to bring happiness to a girl who’d been shot for no reason other than being a Jew — and to her father, who devoted himself to Torah.

But that was just the beginning.

Someone in Lakewood who had followed Shai’s updates reached out. “I saw you gave $26,000 to a rosh kollel. I want to match it.” Soon after, a campaign was launched, and it didn’t take long to raise the full amount. Now the rosh kollel had been gifted a total of $52,000 — enough support to remain focused on learning for months.

Months later, while biking with his sons in Har Nof, Shai stopped for a rest. A yeshivah bachur approached and suddenly burst into tears.

Shai jumped off his bike. “What’s wrong? Do we know each other?”

The bachur shook his head. “No. But I have to tell you something.”

He explained how, even before the war, he had been spiraling spiritually. Learning had become difficult. He eventually left yeshivah, deciding instead to cook for soldiers and find other ways to help.

“One day I found out about the girl who was shot — and how all she wanted was help for her father’s kollel. That changed me. I felt something spark inside. I dropped everything and returned to yeshivah.”

He smiled. “I’ve been back for seven months now. I’m learning three sedarim a day, and today I’m one of the top boys in my yeshivah — all because you shared that story.”

Two days later, Shai spent Shabbos in Petach Tikvah. After davening, while waiting for his mother, a woman approached him.

“Are you Shai Graucher?”

He nodded.

“My son met you in Yerushalayim and told you how that story changed his life.”

“I remember.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “He doesn’t just learn now — he loves it. That girl could’ve asked for anything. But she asked for Torah support — and that changed my son forever.”

As Shai walked home with his mother, he reflected on how one act of kindness, one moment of selflessness, could ripple across the world, transforming people he had never even met. It felt like a kiss from Hashem — a clear message to keep going, keep helping, and keep spreading light.

Adapted from: Rabbi Frand on the Parashah

הַמַּאֲכִלְךָ מָן בַּמִּדְבָּר…לְמַעַן עַנֹּתְךָ וּלְמַעַן נַסֹּתֶךָ 

The One Who feeds you manna in the desert… in order to test you (Devarim 8:16)

Everyone knows that life is a test. We struggle to make a living, to raise our children, to build up our communities. Nothing comes easy, and our test is to deal with the hardships and frustrations in the best way possible.

But what if our livelihood were served up to us on a silver platter? How wonderful that would be! No more worries about how to pay for the children’s tuition or the new roof. What if everything we needed came to us like manna from heaven? Would we consider this a test? Hardly. We would consider it a blessing. The Torah, however, seems to say otherwise.

No sooner had the Jewish people come forth from Egypt that they complained (Shemos 16:3), “If only we had died by the hand of God in the land of Egypt when we were sitting beside the fleshpots, when we ate our fill of bread; now you have brought us out into the desert to let the entire congregation starve to death.”

“Behold, I will rain down bread from the heavens on you,” Hashem replied (ibid. 16:4). “The people shall go out to collect their daily portion every day, in order to test whether or not they will follow My Torah.”

The commentators wonder what kind of test this is. What could be better than having everything you need delivered to your doorstep every day? This is a test? This is a blessing!

Rashi explains that Hashem was referring to the laws that govern the manna. One could not store away any manna for the next day. One had to collect a double portion on Friday. And so forth. This was the test. Would the Jewish people observe the laws of the manna scrupulously?

This test is also mentioned in Parashas Eikev, “The One Who feeds you manna in the desert… in order to test you.” Sforno explains that the test is to see if the Jews would still follow the Torah when they do not have to worry about their livelihood.

Yes, there is a great test in “bread raining down from heaven.” Affluence without effort is a dangerous thing. It comes with a great amount of leisure time and freedom of action. What do we do with that leisure time and that freedom of action? Do we use our leisure time and freedom of action to taste the forbidden? This is the great test of the manna.

We are all aware of the test of poverty. We are all aware of the trials and tribulations of being poor. However, says Sforno, affluence also comes with great temptations. It puts a tremendous responsibility on a person. This is the test of the manna, and it is the test for many Jews in these affluent times.