Rabbi Shaya's Thoughts

How should we react when our child does something very wrong? Our love for them knows no bounds, but we cannot ignore what they have done. There is a familiar saying, “Don’t hate the sinner, hate the sin.” This is not easy to do, and even if we want to see it that way, how do we internalize this idea so that we live by it?

In this week’s Torah portion, Emor, we are introduced to the concept of the death penalty. The Torah describes four methods: by strangulation, by stoning, by sword, and by burning. After the death penalty is implemented, the body is then hung on a tree, but only for a very short time, and is then given a proper burial.

At first glance, this seems not only ritualistic, but also difficult to understand. If the person is already dead, why hang them on a tree? If they must be hung, why specifically from a tree? And even if that is required, why are they taken down quickly?

There must be a deeper message.

The Torah is teaching us a profound lesson. There are times when consequences for bad behavior must be carried out. However, we are not meant to define a person by their wrongdoing. Instead, we are encouraged to see the rationale behind their actions.

When the Torah speaks about hanging on a tree, it is not only describing an act, but more importantly, it is conveying an attitude. The “tree” should be understood as a reference to the original tree, the one from which Adam and Eva ate, and as a result, introduced the potential for human struggle and failure into the world.

This does not remove responsibility from us, but it does place the behavior into context.

After someone sins, the person is still seen as G-d’s creation, and therefore deserving of dignity. That is why they are not left hanging over night, but are taken down and given a proper burial soon thereafter.

This message applies to our own lives as well. When a child misbehaves, there may be consequences, but we should also look beyond the action itself. We should try to understand what may have influenced their behavior and respond with compassion alongside accountability.

This perspective is not limited to our children. It can shape how we view others, and even how we view ourselves. Even when judgment is necessary, it should always be carried out with kindness.

Shabbat Shalom

There is a famous Chassidic saying: What you are not allowed to do, you cannot do. But even what you are permitted to do, you do not have to do. And what you are commanded to do, you must do.

In short, life includes:
The things we must do,
The things we must not do,
Everything in between.

This applies to our day-to-day lives as well as to our spiritual lives.

We do not want to live like robots. We want a life that is vibrant, and full of energy and enthusiasm. A lesson from the Torah’s “law about blood,” however, can help us learn how to balance the good energy and the potential pitfalls that can come from too much enthusiasm.

In this week’s Torah portion, Acharei - Kedoshim, we learn that the blood of a bird or a wild animal must be covered after slaughter, while the blood of a domesticated animal such as a cow, sheep, or goat, may be left exposed.

Why the difference?

When offerings were brought in the Temple, animals that were placed on the altar had their blood used in the service, and that blood was left exposed. Animals that were not brought to the altar had their blood covered.

Here is the deeper meaning behind this distinction:

Blood represents life. It is our vitality, our passion, and our drive. But that same energy can go in two very different directions.

If a person is on the altar, meaning that their energy is directed toward serving G-d, then that passion becomes a powerful force for good. It fuels enthusiasm, warmth, and excitement when doing a mitzvah.

But if that same energy is not directed toward something higher, it can easily become a source of negative behavior. In that case, it must be covered or restrained, or even better, it can be redirected.

Not everything needs to be avoided, and not everything needs to be embraced.

Like the energy of blood, the things we are permitted to do can go either way. If we leave them as they are, they remain ordinary, and sometimes even pull us down. But if we bring them onto the altar by infusing them with intention and purpose, they become elevated.

Judaism is not only about choosing between right and wrong. It is about choosing what to do with everything in between.

Will we leave it ordinary, or will we elevate it?

Shabbat Shalom

Motion-sensor lighting is incredibly practical. The light turns on the moment it senses someone passing by, instantly brightening the space when light is needed. Yet it has one frustrating flaw: when you stand still, relying on that light, it suddenly switches off, leaving you in darkness.

This is the story of our lives.

We can walk into a room and illuminate our surroundings with our presence. Our words and actions have the power to bring light into any space we enter. But just like a motion-sensor light, if we remain passive, that light can fade away.

In this week’s Torah portion of Tazria-Metzora, we learn about a person afflicted with a skin rash, Tzara’at (often incorrectly referred to as leprosy), who becomes ritually impure and must be quarantined outside the community until symptoms disappear. If this person enters someone’s home still with symptoms, the entire house and its contents become impure. However, if they are asked to leave “within the time it takes to light Shabbat candles,” the home remains unaffected.

For the last two thousand years—since the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem—this law has held no practical relevance in our daily lives. Yet its spiritual lesson remains profoundly relevant.

The Torah uses the lighting of Shabbat candles as the measure of time because this act is far more than a simple custom. On a deeper spiritual level, when we light the Shabbat candles on Friday night, we are not only bringing physical light into our homes, we are filling our homes with the radiant light of a mitzvah.

When we perform mitzvot in our homes, impurity finds no place to settle. And no mitzvah demonstrates this truth more powerfully than the lighting of Shabbat candles—a physical act that ignites spiritual brilliance, even though it occurs only once a week.

The flip side is equally true: The absence of this special light creates a spiritual void.

This mitzvah is uniquely entrusted to women and girls.. You hold the beautiful power to infuse your homes with both physical warmth and profound spiritual light. Never underestimate the impact of this sacred act.

By bringing this mitzvah into your home each week, you ensure that the light of holiness never fades, even in moments of stillness. You become the steady flame that illuminates your family’s path, week after week.

Shabbat Shalom

 When nature behaves the way nature does but we are looking for a different outcome, we pray for a miracle. In a sense, we are beholden to nature, which leads us to conclude that the only way the situation can change is for a miracle to occur.

Let’s take a closer look at nature vs. miracle.

In a way, it is the difference between the weekly solar cycle, which is as consistent as the sun rising and setting, and the monthly lunar cycle, that waxes and wanes.

An example of this differentiation within Jewish thought is found when assessing the difference between Shabbat and holidays. Shabbat’s designation has to do with the day of the week; “On the seventh day you shall rest.” Holidays rely on the day of the month, which is why the Seders are on a different night of the week each year, but start on the same day of the month, the 15^th of Nisan.

But it is not always so clean cut.

This Shabbat is called Shabbat Hagadol, an important Shabbat. The reason for this is that while the Jews were still in Egypt, they were told that on the 10^th day of the month, (at the time it was a Friday night), they should bring a lamb to their homes,. Then, they were to spray its blood on their doorposts so that G-d would know which homes to “Pass over” as the killing of the first-born Egyptians took place. This was a huge miracle for the Jewish people, hence an important Shabbat.

Since this occurrence was a miracle, and it happened on the 10^th of the month, why do we commemorate this event each year on a Shabbat, and not on the 10^th of the month?

Miracles change the natural order of things temporarily, but nature stays the same.  However, transforming nature so that it behaves differently is an even greater miracle, since the miracle comes from within.

Commemorating this miracle on Shabbat gives us the power of the week, and the power of the month combined. We are celebrating not only a miracle that influenced nature, but also how nature itself changed.

This is the ultimate prayer. Not to ask only for a miracle, but to ask that nature itself change.

The month of Nissan and the holiday of Passover give us the opportunity to ask for this blessing. 

May all those who need a miracle with their health, be blessed with the miracle of nature itself changing. May they be healthy, to the extent that treatment and a miracles cure not be needed. 

Shabbat Shalom and chag Pesach sameach 

When we sit down to a meal, we usually judge the food by a few specific factors: how it looks, the way it tastes, its texture, and, very importantly, how it smells. In fact, an unpleasant smell is often the quickest way to turn us off from a dish entirely. 

That is why it is so striking to read in this week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, that the aroma from the sacrifice of the animal offerings were a “pleasing aroma to G-d.” If we look at this purely physically, it’s hard to understand. While a backyard barbecue smells great, burning an entire animal—including the flesh, the organs, and the bones—could produce a smell that is quite foul. 

How can a smell that is physically repulsive to us be described as “pleasing” to G-d? 

The answer must be that the "aroma" isn't about the how the smoke smells at all. It’s about something much deeper. 

In our own lives, we find that when we do something for a friend that we actually enjoy doing, their appreciation is often limited. They know we did it, in part, because it made us happy, too. But when we do something for someone that is difficult, inconvenient, or even unpleasant for us, their appreciation grows. They realize our only motivation was our connection to them. 

This helps us understand the Korbanot (offerings). The Torah is incredibly sensitive to the welfare of animals; the law of Tza'ar Ba’alei Chayim strictly forbids causing them unnecessary pain. We are generally only allowed to slaughter an animal for the purpose of eating. Yet, with the Olah (the burnt offering), the animal was placed entirely on the altar and consumed by fire. There was no physical benefit for the person who brought it. 

Most people have no desire to kill an animal just for the sake of it. We do it for food because we have to, and we follow strict laws to be as humane as possible. But the act of the Olah feels counterintuitive. We don't do it because we understand it; we do it even though we don't. This creates a sense of profound discomfort. 

But we perform mitzvot anyway, even if they are unpleasant to us, simply because G-d asks us. By doing so, we prove that our commitment to Him is more important than our own logic or our own comfort. 

This act, doing something solely for G-d’s sake, is what is truly pleasing to Him. The "aroma" is the scent of our devotion.  

This is a lesson that the offerings teach us, and it is a powerful psychological truth: The highest form of devotion often comes from the things that make us the most uncomfortable. 

Life is not about being comfortable, but about doing for others and for G-d.  

Let’s become comfortable being uncomfortable.  

Shabbat Shalom 

 It was Tucker Carlson, a known purveyor of anti-Semitic ideas, who strongly suggested that the Chabad helped initiate the war in the Middle East because it wants the Third Temple rebuilt on the Temple Mount. While this is true, the method he described is not. It will not be accomplished through war, but through our good deeds.

So why do we want to build a Third Temple?

In the Torah, we learn about the Mishkan (the temporary Tabernacle) built in the desert, which traveled with the Jewish people to the Holy Land. It was the center of Jewish spiritual life until the permanent Temple was built in Jerusalem. Seventy years after its destruction, the Second Temple was built. The prophets told us about the eventual Third Temple, which will be built when Moshiach comes.

The concept of Tikkun Olam, repairing and perfecting this world, is our preparation for welcoming the Messianic Era. When Moshiach comes, the Third Temple will be built. This is not a uniquely Chabad idea; it is a foundational principle of Jewish faith. In fact, Maimonides lists it as one of the Thirteen Principles of Faith.

The unique rule that the Temples have in Judaism is worth exploring a little more deeply. Are the three different types of Temples a coincidence?  Perhaps each one has uniqueness to them. Is there a reason why the Mishkan was temporary while the Temples were proper structures? Why wait until Moshiach comes to build the Third Temple?

There is a Midrash on this week's Torah portion, Pekudei, which discusses the building of the Mishkan. It teaches that when the Ark was placed in the Holy of Holies, it sang out in praise to G-d. A second opinion holds that it was not the Ark, but the Jewish people who sang. A third opinion is that it was G-d Himself who sang, rejoicing that the Ark had finally found a resting place.

These are not merely three opinions. They represent three stages in creating a dwelling place for G-d in this world:

1. The Ark sings. The Ark housed the Torah and therefore represents it. When it was placed in the Holy of Holies, and when the Torah is placed in our hearts through study, it finds a true home.
2. The Jewish people sing. Having a permanent home in which to serve G-d, the people rejoice. This service represents the Mitzvot we perform.
3. G-d sings. When He sees the Jewish people studying Torah and observing the Mitzvot, G-d declares that He has finally found a home in this world.

These three ideas are also reflected in the three sacred structures:

• The Mishkan/Tabernacle represents Torah, as the Ark was its focal point.

• The Temples represent Mitzvot. The Ark was hidden toward the end of the First Temple period and absent during the Second, so the emphasis shifted to the service itself.

• The Third Temple will be a testament that G-d has found His home. His presence will be felt openly in our world.

Let us do our part and help G-d fulfill His wish, to feel that He truly belongs here.

Shabbat Shalom 

Often, we quote a saying without giving it much thought. “Giving credit where credit is due" is one such example. 

This saying can have more than one meaning. It is said when someone does something for you, and although you could have done the same yourself, you offer credit to the one who performed the act. This saying also applies when sharing an idea. If you hear a concept from someone, you should attribute it to them. This is commonly done when giving a lecture or writing a paper, when citing the source is of utmost importance. 

However, it is worth asking, why is that so? Do we always have to give attribution? Imagine if, in every conversation you have, you must say which teacher shared each thought with you or which book or article cited what you shared. You could go crazy. 

On Purim, in the scroll of Esther, we read, “And Esther told the king in the name of Mordechai" (Esther 2:22) The Talmud (tractate Megillah 15a) teaches that from that quote we can learn a fascinating lesson: Sharing information using the name of the person who spoke it first can bring redemption. 

You see, Esther shared with the king very important information. Mordechai, she said, uncovered a plot to poison the king! Once the king’s investigation was complete, and it turned out to be real, Mordechai was rewarded. Imagine if Esther had not cited her source? The whole downfall of Haman might have never happened. 

Yet, we see that not every time someone shares a lesson do they quote the source. Practically, it can be annoying. How do we reconcile the two approaches?

Here is a good rule to follow: If the information is novel, and it was said to you specifically, you should share from whom you learned it. However, if it is something that you have studied, read, or heard and then thought about until you internalized the idea and now you are ready to share it, the idea has now become yours.  

The greatest compliment that you can give your teacher is to internalize their teaching and make it your own. As the saying goes, “Plagiarism is the greatest form of flattery.”

Shabbat Shalom

PS – Before making this idea your own, let me share my source with you. I learned this from the Lubavitch Rebbe, printed in Likkutei Sichos, vol 36.

“Six seven” has become such a viral trend, even though it carries no real meaning. Yet when Purim comes and we celebrate the holiday by turning things upside down, it is worth taking a closer look.

When people say “six seven,” they often accompany it with hand gestures, using both the right and the left hands.

Through the prism of spirituality, we can see something deeper. The right hand represents the spiritual world, while the left represents the physical, mundane world. Although these appear to be two separate realms, right and left, they are intended to work together.

We see this most clearly in the Purim story. Mordechai, one of the leading spiritual figures of his time, dons sackcloth as a sign of mourning and gathers the Jewish people to pray that Haman and Achashverosh decree that  all Jews should be killed in one day should be annulled. A three-day fast is established so that they can reconnect with their spiritual core.

Esther, the Jewish girl that became  Achashverosh’s queen, partners with Mordechai to stop this catastrophe in its tracks, takes a very different approach. She prepares to enter the king’s chamber. She approaches Achashverosh with a strategy, dressed in royal garb. She arranges a feast for the king and invites his advisor, Haman. Then she prepares a second feast, where she successfully exposes, then destroys, the plot against the Jewish people.

One way to understand the story is this: Mordechai and Esther were working in harmony but it was Mordechai who represented the spiritual path, while Esther represented the practical, down-to-earth approach.

We know that in life, especially regarding health-related issues, we must engage both paths. At the same time when we pray for G-d’s intervention, we also take proper medical steps to improve the situation. We understand that there must be a partnership between the spiritual and physical worlds.

Still, it is worth asking: If we must prepare ourselves to receive G-d’s blessings, which approach carries greater weight? Prayer or action? Spiritual connection or practical effort?

The story of Purim is recorded in a scroll called Megillat Esther, the Scroll of Esther. Why Esther and not Mordechai?

The answer teaches us something profound. While prayer and mitzvot (the spiritual) are essential, they are not sufficient on their own. It was Esther’s courage and practical initiative (the physical) that brought the miracle to completion. She entered the palace. She navigated politics. She took calculated steps within the physical world to draw down G-d’s blessing.

Also, it was Esther who requested that Purim be established as a holiday and that the story be recorded as part of the Torah. The observance of Purim itself reflects this integration. We do not only read the story; we celebrate with a festive meal. We give gifts of food to our friends. We give money to the poor. The mitzvot are tangible and practical.

Judaism is not meant to divide life into two separate realms, physical and spiritual. It calls upon us to merge them into one unified service.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Purim.

Frequently we find ourselves stuck in the rat race of life. Days and weeks can go by and our life starts to feel like one long, monotonous cycle.  How can we break it up? How can we find some serenity and meaning?  

One solution can be to take a few minutes each day and think about the “why” of our existence--What am I looking to accomplish in life? Or, we can create a long-term solution by dedicating a space in our home (for example,  a comfortable chair) where we go daily for peace and quiet. We can also bring meaning into our life by designating a percentage of our income to charity, marking it for a higher purpose than just our own personal needs.  

However, we can still challenge ourselves by asking, is this enough?  

Let’s look closely at this week’s Torah portion, Terumah. In the first few verses, G-d tells us to “take for Me” a donation to help build the Sanctuary. A few verses later, G-d says, “make for Me” a Sanctuary.

Why is G-d using the term “Me?” It sounds childish, and if we think about it, we cannot even fulfill these commands. Here’s why it’s not practical: Let’s say that I give $100 toward G-d’s building fund that I “took for You;” the money now becomes G-d’s.  I can now only use G-d’s money to fulfill the second command, to build the edifice. How can I “build it for You” when it actually already belongs to G-d?  

Either I use my money and build Your temple, or I use Your money to build Your Temple, but then the Temple is not mine.  

One way to explain this is that there is more to give than just handing over money. There is a deeper type of giving. First, we set aside money for the donation, then we elevate that donation. In order to make the donation more meaningful, more is required from us than just writing a check.    

Using the dedicated space in our home as we suggested is an example. Once the space is designated, the area essentially becomes a sanctuary in our home. Does that mean that this space becomes “holy?” 

The verses teach us that the designation is not enough; we have the ability to transform the space into a holy place, not only studying there, but doing so with intention. Just donating our money is not enough; we should also get involved in the causes to which we are donating. Our hearts and souls have to get involved, not only our checkbooks.  

This is what G-d is telling us. Give to ME and build for ME are really two steps in transforming our environment around us: 1- we separate. 2 – we elevate. 

Shabbat Shalom 

The law of cause and effect is well known. Yet there are times when we wonder why things happen the way they do. 

To say “I don’t know” takes humility, especially if you are expected to know. However, these words can be understood in two very different ways. Sometimes, “I don’t know” simply means a lack of information. You are unaware. But there is a deeper kind of “I don’t know,” one that comes only after engagement, study, and struggling to grasp an idea over and over again, even to the point of frustration, you arrive at the realization that you still don’t know.

That realization is deeply humbling. It is not an external humility, but a personal and intimate surrender. That is true humility.

Being humble is not easy.

Yet, this is what G-d demands of us. In this week’s Torah portion, Yitro, G-d gives us the Ten Commandments. He begins with, “I am your G-d,” followed immediately by, “You shall have no other gods before Me.” Together, these commandments teach us to place our trust in G-d and relinquish control, recognizing that idolatry, i.e., false sources of security and power, ultimately lead nowhere.

What is striking is that after the Torah concludes the account of what took place at Mount Sinai, we are once again warned not to make or serve idols. 

Why the repetition?

One explanation is that G-d does not only want obedience, but understanding. Not merely that we avoid idolatry because it is forbidden, but because we grasp why it is empty.

In a way, this is the difference between doing a mitzvah and studying Torah. A mitzvah can be performed by habit; we grow up trained to act. Torah study, however, demands effort, time, and thought, sometimes deep thought, as we struggle to understand what the Torah is truly teaching us.

Idolatry follows the same pattern.

We can be good Jews who do not serve idols, standing humbly before G-d because that is what is commanded. But when we understand why idols are meaningless, and why our trust belongs with G-d alone, our humility becomes deeper and more internal. It is no longer imposed from without, but cultivated from within.

Mitzvot bring us closer to G-d. Torah study brings us closer to ourselves as well.

Shabbat Shalom

 A quick AI summary of imposter syndrome describes it as follows: “A psychological experience involving internalized self-doubt and the fear of being exposed as a ‘fraud,’ despite evidence of competence or high achievement….”

Many of us ask ourselves, after accomplishing something great, whether it really happened to us. Take golf, for example: If someone hits a hole-in-one, chances are that it was not purely their skill that accomplished this, but also luck. As a result, they can feel like an imposter. True, they play golf, but they know that, in truth, they are not that good.

In Judaism, we can experience this from a spiritual view. We fulfill a mitzvah, or even a Jewish custom, but even as we do it, we might not feel connected. The holiness that we are hoping to feel is simply not there. Therefore, we ask ourselves: If that is the case, then why are we doing it?

In this week’s Torah portion, Beshalach, we learn about the manna that fell from heaven each day, except on Shabbat. For Jews to have food to eat on Shabbat, a double portion fell on Friday. Today, we remember this event by having two loaves of challah on the table at each Shabbat meal, on Friday evening and Shabbat day. Since Shabbat is a holy day and we want to embrace this sanctity, there is a third meal as well.

There is a Jewish custom that on Saturday night, we have another meal to say “goodbye” to this holy day. The traditional name for this meal is Melaveh Malka, translated to “escorting the Queen,” bidding farewell to the departing Shabbat Queen. Although it is not recorded anywhere in the Torah that the Jews ate this meal while in the desert, chances are that they did have dinner on Saturday night.

What did they eat? The leftovers of the day, the manna that came from heaven for Shabbat. However, when Shabbat was over and the sanctity of the day was gone, how could they eat sanctified food?

Today, we too, ask the same question. Why are we eating a meal after Shabbat is over if the holiness of the day is gone?

We can feel like we are trying to bring holiness into a time that is not holy—this meal can feel like a sham. Fake.

Here is another perspective. True, the sanctity of Shabbat is over. However, the blessings that Shabbat bring into our workweek have just begun.

It is easy for us to want to bask in holiness and purity, asking ourselves: Do we really deserve the praise that we are getting? Did we really earn it? This is when we can feel like an imposter. However, if we reframe our perspective from being “worthy” to being blessed, then even if we feel that we don’t deserve the praise, and we can feel like a fraud because it was unearned, we should instead look at the blessings that infuse our lives.

A blessing is not earned; it is given. When we receive it, we should embrace it. And be thankful.

May this week be a week of many blessings.

Shabbat Shalom

 Upon the retirement of Warren Buffett, his greatness was widely exalted. Many explained that while it is certainly true that he was exceptionally skilled at picking the right investments, there are other investors who are experts at this as well. His greatest strength was that he remained steadfast in his principles.

I do not know what methods Buffett used to stay so committed to those principles, but the fact that this is what he is most lauded for is reason to believe that he had proper support in place so that he would not waver.

In truth, this is how we build a home. We begin with the foundation, because without a strong foundation the structure above will collapse. However, to hold the house together, we also need strong beams, strategically placed, so that the foundation can do its job.

Our principles are our foundation, and the support system that helps us remain true to those principles is our beams.

This idea is found in this week’s Torah portion, Bo, where the Exodus from Egypt is experienced and, as a result, the Jews become a free people. To this day, we celebrate the holiday of freedom with the Seder. We eat matzah and drink wine (or grape juice), and we recline as a sign of freedom, luxury, and expansiveness.

The act of leaning and relaxing during the Seder is an expression of our freedom and our current state of being. It means that, in principle, we are free in every aspect of our lives. We were slaves, now we are free, and we will always remain free. However, to anchor this idea in our minds and hearts, until it is seared into our souls, it is vital that we express this feeling at very specific times: when we eat matzah and when we drink the four cups of wine.

If we have principles without any way of expressing them, we can easily be swayed to abandon them, even if only for a moment. And then it can happen again and again. If, however, we have a plan in place to live by our principles, with clearly defined practices that we follow, then no temptation will pull us away from them.

At the Seder, we express the principle of freedom through eating matzah and drinking the four cups of wine.

As Jews, our principles are the Torah, and the support system that helps us remain true to those principles is the mitzvot.

Have a happy Mitzvah Day and an experiential Shabbat.