Rabbi Shaya's Thoughts

 A famous adage says, “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

This is true when it comes to our relationship with G-d—He actually comes looking for us. In the words of the Zohar, “If we initiate the relationship then G-d responds in kind. If we don’t do so on our own, then G-d initiates the relationship on His own.“

If that is the case, then why should we try to initiate at all? The answer is, that when G-d responds to our effort, the relationship is stronger and more powerful than if it comes from G- d’s initiation.

However, upon closer examination we will find that if G-d initiates a relationship, then that means it is coming from a higher place to begin with! Then when we respond, we are connecting on a much higher level with G-d, i.e., a higher source within G-d.

To understand this better, we need to first address a basic concept in Judaism.

We are taught that G-d created this world so that WE could make this world a dwelling place for Him. This is a very tall order. How is it possible for us to accomplish this? After all, we are just human beings.

G-d gave us the power by giving us a soul, a part of G-d Himself, and we CAN be “G-d-like” if we try. True, we cannot make something out of nothing (like G-d does) but we can make nothing out of something! (I don’t mean by destroying something.) This means that we have the ability to bring out the true essence of this world, revealed in a way that all can see and comprehend that it is all G-d’s. Hence, it becomes nothing; it becomes totally nullified in G-d’s greatness.

In other words, we have two options in our approach to connecting with G-d: First, to simply do what G-d asks of us, and by doing so, initiate a relationship with Him, with the result of that relationship being that G-d responds and then we respond in kind. The second approach is that we tap into our infinite soul and create a world for G-d within this world, hence bringing down an even greater revelation than what we could have through the first approach.

During the days of counting the Omer, let us think more deeply about our relationship with G-d and what Passover really means to us.

What happens when you pour one liquid into another, from a higher source into a lower one? At what point do they mix? And if you stop the flow midstream, what’s the status?

The Mishna gives us a fascinating rule: If both liquids are the same temperature, they stay separate, even mid-pour. But if the lower liquid is hot and steamy, and the upper is cold, something changes. The lower liquid heats and "cooks" the upper one. In halachic terms, the identity of the upper liquid is transformed by the lower.

Here’s the powerful message hidden in this law:

Real change doesn’t necessarily have to come from above. It primarily comes from below.

If we want to grow, we must ignite our soul. We need to be fired up, stirred with passion and purpose. That inner spark is what transforms us—not something poured onto us from above. Not advice, inspiration, influence, or even holiness from the outside. Real change rises from within.

It is even more striking when we pay attention to another detail of this law. What if the liquid being poured is pure and is being mixed with impure liquid? The law is the same—it’s the lower, impure liquid that defines the mixture. The pure becomes impure.

In life, too, change often begins by hitting rock bottom. That moment when things get messy, when we’re at our lowest, that’s when something sparks inside. And when a person turns themselves around from that place, no one else can take credit. There is no “holy water” that can be sprinkled from above. The transformation comes from within.

And here’s the beauty: A person who finds that inner fire doesn’t just warm themselves, they become a source of motivation for others. They inspire those who are still cold, lost, and searching, to rise up and start their own transformation. 
 
Because when change bubbles up from below, it can reach even higher than anything poured from above.

Take the plunge and make a change.

Shabbat Shalom.

 This week, in the middle of the night while almost everyone was asleep, a group of workers was busy repairing the water mains on the street in front of Chabad. These workers labored tirelessly, often without anyone even noticing. Watching them made me reflect on all the people who work behind the scenes and don’t always receive the recognition they deserve.

This idea connects to a powerful lesson from this week’s Torah portion, Vayikrah. The portion discusses the various offerings brought during Temple times—animals, flour, salt, wine, and oil. A person could bring one or all of these items, and each was considered an offering because it was placed on the altar.

Since all the offerings were burned on the altar, wood was needed to sustain the fire. This raises an interesting question: If someone brought wood as an offering, was it considered a true gift, or was it merely a necessity to keep the altar functioning? 

The argument is made that not only should the wood be counted as an offering, but in some ways, it is the most significant one. Not because it stands out, but precisely because it remains in the background.

Let me explain. The purpose of bringing an offering is to symbolize offering oneself to G-d—to cultivate humility before Him. Since we cannot sacrifice ourselves, we bring an offering in our place. However, when giving a gift or making a contribution, it is often difficult to avoid feeling a sense of pride, even if only internally. And that pride, however subtle, can become an obstacle to fully closing the gap between ourselves and G-d. True humility remains incomplete when recognition or personal satisfaction is attached to our giving.

Wood, on the other hand, comes with no fanfare. It is cut in the forest, delivered through the back door, and burned to ashes. What pride can one take in it? None. And that is precisely the goal.

Just like the workers who labor through the night without expecting recognition, we too can strive to give selflessly, not for popularity or acknowledgment, but simply because it is the right thing to do. 

As we approach Passover—the time when we eat matzah, the bread of humility, the food of the poor—it is the perfect opportunity to reflect on how we can contribute to making the world a better place, even when no one is watching.

Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom and a Happy Passover!

Have you ever been to a grand opening ceremony? You see all the C-suite executives on stage, smiling for the cameras, while the construction workers—the ones who actually did the work—stand in the background.

At first glance, this might seem unfair. The monied people take all the credit, while the laborers remain unseen. But perhaps there’s more to it.

In this week’s Torah portion, we find a similar episode in the construction of the Mishkan, the holy Tabernacle. When the Jewish people finished building and assembling this house of G-d, Moses blessed them, saying, “May it be G-d’s will that His presence dwell in the Mishkan, and that the work of our hands be pleasing to Him.”

The Torah describes how, although the people built every component of the Mishkan, they turned to Moses to assemble it. Why? If they had the skill to construct it, why couldn’t they complete the final step themselves?

An even deeper question arises: Why did Moses include himself in the blessing? Was he, like the executives at a grand opening, trying to take credit for the work of others?

Here we uncover a powerful double lesson: As Jews, we need a Moses, and a true leader desires to be part of the people. 

The Jewish nation didn’t involve Moses because they needed his help to complete the Mishkan—they wanted him to be part of it. They didn’t see Moses as a leader only in times of struggle; they turned to him in moments of joy as well.

Moses understood that being a spiritual leader doesn’t mean staying distant, detached, or above the people. He couldn’t simply give instructions and remain on the sidelines. A true leader gets involved—hands-on, side by side with the people. 

From Moses, we learn an essential leadership principle: Don’t stand on the stage like a sage—be a guide from the side. Encourage, uplift, and empower others to reach their full potential.

Shabbat Shalom!

 Why is happiness such an essential ingredient in celebrating Purim? Sure, Haman wanted to wipe out the Jewish people, but the tables turned—we not only survived, we thrived! So, we celebrate. But isn’t that the story of every Jewish holiday? As the saying goes: They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat.

Clearly, Purim has a unique element that deserves exploring.

The miracle of Purim wasn’t just about getting rid of Haman or even the Jews defending themselves against their enemies. What truly stands out is their reaffirmation of their connection to the Torah. As the Scroll of Esther states, they reaccepted what they had already accepted before.

At Mount Sinai, the Jews embraced the Torah, proclaiming the poetic words: Naaseh V’nishma—"We will do, and we will listen." A beautiful response, no doubt, but on some level, they had no choice. They had just witnessed mind-blowing miracles, and according to the Midrash, they were compelled to accept the Torah. (Had they refused, who knows what would have happened to the Jewish people?)

However, after the miracle of Purim, they voluntarily recommitted themselves to G-d and the Torah—on their own volition, with their whole hearts.

This commitment is expressed through the four mitzvot of Purim:

1. Reading the Megillah – Learning Torah, in public, recounting the miracle of Purim, emphasizes the importance of community.

2. Having a festive meal – Gathering with family and friends to foster joy, friendship, and unity.

3. Giving gifts of ready-to-eat food to at least two friends – Spreading happiness by showing others they are cared for.

4. Giving money to the poor – This includes not just those who are financially struggling, but also those who feel alone, such as widows, orphans, and anyone in emotional or spiritual need. Charity isn’t only about finances—it’s about lifting up others in every way.

The common thread? Each of these mitzvot brings joy into our lives.

Happiness strengthens our commitment to what matters most. As Jews, that means G-d and His Torah.

The Purim story reveals the deep joy within each and every one of us.

So, let’s raise a glass and say L’chaim! Let’s celebrate together as a Jewish nation.  

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Purim!

When it comes to those who hate us, the hatred can be personal—the haters may feel we have wronged them in some way, leading to resentment. But there is also a form of hatred that is ideological. As Jews, we experience this often through antisemitism. In these cases, the hatred is not based on personal interactions but rather on a belief system that demonizes us.

When dealing with personal hatred, we should strive to make amends when possible. However, ideological hatred is different. There is no clear path to reconciliation because
the cause of the hate is not rooted in a personal grievance, but in a worldview that sees us as the enemy.

This week, on the Shabbat before Purim, we read a special Torah portion known as Parshat Zachor. In it, we are commanded to remember Amalek. The Torah describes
how Amalek attacked the Jewish people without cause, simply because they were Jews. Because of this, we are commanded to erase Amalek’s existence from the world.

There are six remembrances in the Torah, yet none of them have a special public reading on Shabbat—except this one. Why is it so crucial to read about Amalek in this way, especially when today we do not know who Amalek is and therefore do not act on the command to destroy them?

The answer lies in understanding Amalek’s mindset. Amalek knew exactly who the Jewish people were. He recognized G-d and understood that we were His chosen nation. Yet, he did not care. He knew right from wrong and deliberately chose evil.

This is what we must eradicate—the mindset that knows with clarity truth and goodness yet still chooses to defy it. Mistakes happen, but willful evil is unacceptable.

This is why we are so shaken by the brutal murder of innocent children and adults at the hands of Hamas. The killing of the Bibas family was neither an accident nor an act of war—it was intentional, deliberate, and evil. We struggle to comprehend such pure cruelty.

Whether or not Hamas is the biblical Amalek is not for us to determine. But we do know how we feel about it.

So, what can we do?

When we hear the Torah reading, we should reflect on the subtle influence Amalek can have within ourselves. We must ensure that our knowledge of right and wrong is not merely intellectual, but translates into the emotions in our hearts and the actions in our lives. We must never allow ourselves to fall into an "Amalek mindset"; where there is a disconnect between what we know to be true and how we choose to behave.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Purim

 A house cleaner, working in a newly developed neighborhood filled with many Jewish families, noticed that none of the homes had living room furniture. Curious, she turned to one of the homeowners and asked if there was a Jewish reason for this. The owner responded, "No, we just don't have the money to furnish it.”

What makes a house a home? Is it the things we place inside it, or is it what we do within its walls? Of course, furniture makes living in a home more comfortable and allows us to be more productive—but is that really what matters most?

This very question arises in the study of this week’s Torah portion, Teruma.

Teruma describes the construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. When discussing its significance, the Torah refers to it as a "home" for G-d in this world, a place meant to elevate the world to a higher spiritual realm (Tikkun Olam). This sanctity is realized through the presence of the Ark and the other sacred furnishings.

But what happens if the Mishkan—or later, the Temple—is ransacked? If many of its essential items are missing or broken, can we still serve G-d in its ruins? Or must the building be whole and beautiful to be a true dwelling place for the Divine?

In other words, does holiness reside in the space itself, regardless of its condition? Or do the sacred objects within it create the holiness—meaning that if they are removed, the holiness disappears as well?

We can also ask a similar question in our daily lives: What is more important—creating the space and conditions to fulfill mitzvot (through Torah study and preparation), or the actual performance of mitzvot themselves?

The answer is less important than the lesson it teaches us.

Of course, when everything is perfect, it is easier to focus on serving G-d. But realistically, perfection is rare. Instead of waiting for the ideal moment to do a mitzvah, we must recognize that it is just as meaningful to do it now, despite imperfect conditions. Not because the perfect moment will never come, but because we should not be dependent on it.

We must seize the moment and live in the here and now.

Shabbat Shalom

What happens when a new CEO takes over a company? They begin setting new rules and structures. Seemingly, their goal is to make the company better, stronger, and more focused. The order in which they implement these changes is important.

Last week, we read in the Torah how G-d gave the Jews the Ten Commandments and taught Moses the laws of the Torah.

In this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, Moses teaches these laws to the people. One would expect Moses to start with the most relevant laws first. Instead, he begins by teaching the laws of the indentured servant. To appreciate the apparent irrelevance of prioritizing these laws, it’s worth taking a moment to understand them better.

What happens if a Jew falls into severe debt and cannot repay their creditors? This might occur because they are a serial debtor—someone who repeatedly falls into financial trouble. Worse yet, it could happen if they keep stealing. The Torah teaches that a thief who is caught doesn’t just return the stolen item; they must pay double, and sometimes even four or five times its value. The first time someone steals and gets
caught, their family and friends might step in to help. But if they are a habitual thief, they are in serious trouble.

In such cases, one form of compensation is when a person sells themselves into indentured servitude to pay off their debt. Their new master covers the debt upfront, and they work off the cost. This arrangement can last a week, a month, or even a few years, but never beyond the sabbatical year. At that point, the master must set the servant free.

But what if the servant is happy in this situation? Perhaps they have been rehabilitated and they no longer have expenses or the urge to steal, or maybe they are treated exceptionally well (as the law requires) and their life is better in this way. If they wish to remain in their master’s home, the Torah respects their choice—but with one condition:
The servant must be taken to the doorpost, near the Mezuzah, and have their ear pierced.

This seemingly unusual practice carries deep significance. The ear that heard G-d declare that the Jews should never again be slaves—because Egyptian slavery was to be the last—now chooses servitude of its own free will. As a reminder of this contradiction, the servant’s ear is pierced to symbolize who their true master is: G-d Almighty.

Now, let’s get practical. When was the first time such a situation occurred? Chances are, not for at least 40 years after the Jews left Egypt. The Torah tells us that they left as wealthy people, and for decades G-d provided them with manna from heaven and water from a stone. It’s unlikely that anyone fell into such destitution during that time.

So why teach this seemingly irrelevant law now?

Herein lies a powerful lesson.

What is the key takeaway from this law? The piercing of the ear. Why? To remind us that G-d took us out of Egypt. This  perspective is essential as we learn Torah  and its commandments. 

This is why it is the first law taught.

Studying Torah is not just about learning rules—it’s about absorbing the values and messages behind them. And this lesson, reminding us of our ultimate freedom and devotion to G-d, is so fundamental that it takes precedence over immediate relevance.

Shabbat Shalom,

There is a general rule that when it comes to sharing our thoughts with others, know your audience. The more diverse your audience, the greater the challenge. How do you address a large crowd filled with different personalities and world views?

In this week’s Torah portion, Yitro, we see Moses facing this  very dilemma. How can he speak to millions of Jews and transmit G-d’s word in a way that resonates with everyone?

G-d instructs Moses to teach the people exactly as he was taught—without altering a single word. “Do not add and do not subtract.” However, the Torah then presents a seemingly contradictory verse: “Speak to the House of Jacob and tell the Children of Israel.” Commentators explain that this double expression serves as a directive—know your audience.

The word speak conveys a need for clarity and detail, outlining both the benefits of following through and the consequences of neglect. In contrast, tell suggests a softer approach—less forceful, more open-ended. The Torah specifies that Moses should use the softer style when addressing the "House of Jacob" (the women) and a more direct approach when speaking to the "Children of Israel" (the men).

This raises a question: If Moses must tailor his delivery to different groups, how is he not deviating from G-d’s words?

Perhaps the same words can be conveyed through different tones, emphasis, and styles of speech. But the Torah seems to be teaching something deeper.

The fundamental principles must be stated as they are. Moses first relays G-d’s exact words:

“So now, provided you vigilantly heed My voice and keep My covenant, you will be for Me a treasure cherished above all nations, for the entire world is Mine. You will be unto Me a kingdom of nobles and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19:5-6)

Only once the core message is established does Moses expand on it, adapting his delivery to suit each audience.

From this, we learn an essential lesson: Stay true to who you are and what you believe but also find the right words and style to ensure your message is heard.

Shabbat Shalom!

"G-d created this world because He desired a dwelling place in the world below."

This weekend marks the anniversary of the day the Rebbe assumed leadership of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement. On that day, the 10th of Shevat in 1951, he shared his vision: Leadership is not about relying on him alone; each person must take responsibility.

He quoted a well-known Midrash: "G-d created this world because He desired a dwelling place in the world below." This, the Rebbe emphasized, must be our guiding principle in life.

Creating a home for G-d requires effort—ours alone to make. But how do we achieve something seemingly so beyond our reach?

The Rebbe offered some insight on the language in this Midrash:

• "For Him"—Our actions should not be driven by self-interest but by a higher purpose. When G-d is at the center of our lives, we are on the right path.

• "A home"—A home is not a sterile, impersonal space but one of warmth, belonging, and authenticity. Similarly our relationship with G-d should be meaningful, filled with closeness and relatability.

• "In the world below"—Holiness is not reserved for the spiritually elite or sacred spaces alone. Every person, in any situation, has the ability and responsibility to create this connection.

Nothing and no one are insignificant. We each have the power to transform the world, and the task is ours to fulfill.

Let’s step forward and make the world a better place.

 The Israeli army calls itself the צבא ההגנה לישראל (Tzva ha-Hagana le-Yisra'el), translated as the Israel Defense Forces. Without getting too technical, if we break down the name in Hebrew: Tzva means  "army" and Hagana means "protection"(of Israel). A more literal translation could be “The Protective Army of Israel.” What is the difference between a Protective Army and a Defense Force?

In this week’s Torah portion, Bo, we encounter the word Tzva for the first time. As the Jewish people evolved into a nation, they were referred to as b’nei Yisrael (the children of Israel), Am Yisrael (the nation of Israel), and Tzva Yisra’el (the army of Israel). In fact, one verse uses all these terms together: “I took out My army, My nation, the children of Israel from Egypt.”

Interestingly, the Hebrew word Tzva (often mentioned with different pronouns) is used to describe the Jewish people as a cohesive unit—a nation united and prepared to defend itself. Even more intriguing is that Tzva is also used many times in the Torah as one of G-d’s names.

How can it be that the same word is used to describe both the Jewish people and G-d?

Here lies a profound lesson from the concept of Tzva: It is when we integrate G-d into our lives that we truly become united as a people. We transform into a nation and an army. This  transformation occurred only after the Jewish people endured immense suffering. Suffering can either divide a people or unite them. When pain and hardship take control, they weaken us. However, if we take charge of how we respond to challenges, we emerge as a united and resilient force.

The same principle applies to our personal lives. When we allow life’s challenges to overwhelm us, we risk falling apart. But if we face them with courage and determination,
we can grow stronger than ever before. 

Let us embrace challenges as opportunities to grow and become stronger.

Shabbat Shalom!

 This week, we witnessed the joyous release of three Jewish hostages who were held by Hamas for longer than 470 days. It’s natural to wonder: why don’t these evil people return all the hostages to their families? Why wait? Once they saw Israel’s response to their actions in Gaza, why didn’t they release all the hostages immediately to avoid their own further suffering?

We each have our perspective on this 470+day question. But for now, let’s reflect on a historical parallel. This is not the first time that evil people chose destruction over surrender.

This week’s Torah portion, Va’eira, recounts the story of Pharaoh enslaving the Jewish people and G-d sending the first of the ten plagues. The same question arises: As the Egyptians suffered through one plague after another, why didn’t Pharaoh let the Jews go? Why endure so much needless suffering and pain? 

The Torah explains that while Pharaoh may have wanted to release the Jews, G-d hardened his heart, preventing him from doing so. But why? What purpose did this extended suffering serve? How did it benefit the Jews or the Egyptians?

To understand, we must look deeper. The plagues were meant to teach three essential lessons:

1. G-d’s omnipotence.
2. G-d’s control over the universe.
3. G-d’s ability to alter the natural order at His will.

These lessons were not just for the Egyptians but for the Jews as well. The sooner both sides internalized these truths, the sooner the desired outcome could be achieved. In Egypt, this process took about a year.

Today, it feels as though G-d is hardening the hearts of Hamas, just as He did with the Egyptians. As we reflect on this, we must learn from the past to help shape the future.
We have the power to ensure things do not continue to drag on unnecessarily. By improving our own Jewish lives and those of our friends and communities, we can help bring about the freedom and peace we so deeply desire.

Sometimes, it may be that one more mitzvah is all it takes to tip the scales.

Shabbat Shalom

There are days we eagerly look forward to, and there are days we wish would simply pass quickly. Joyful moments and darker times are part of the human experience. But how can we find the good days in the midst of the most challenging and depressing times?

This week, we begin reading the book of Shemot (Exodus), which plunges us into one of the most difficult chapters in Jewish history. The narrative opens with the Jewish people facing tremendous adversity: their elders are gone, a new Pharaoh arises who disregards the contributions of Joseph and his family, and the process of their enslavement begins.

Even the conclusion of this week’s portion feels bleak. While Moses is appointed as G-d’s messenger—a seemingly positive development—he voices a heartfelt complaint to G-d. He laments that since he was sent to confront Pharaoh, the situation for the Jewish people has only worsened. The portion ends on this note of unresolved pain, leaving us with what feels like one of the darkest stories in the Torah. 

How, then, can we uncover the good in this week’s narrative?

We know the end of the story: G-d brings the ten plagues, the Jewish people are liberated from Egypt, and they ultimately receive the Torah at Mount Sinai. But Jewish mysticism teaches that redemption doesn’t begin with the plagues or the miracles of next week’s portion. It begins this week, in the darkest moments of oppression and despair.

It is precisely during these moments of profound difficulty that we are compelled to look inward, to search the depths of our souls for meaning, resilience, and the strength to continue doing what is right, even when it feels impossible. Tapping into this inner essence is no small feat—it takes courage and perseverance. But when we do, we open the door to  extraordinary growth and transformation. Transforming the impossible to the possible.

This is why, even though this week’s portion seems overwhelmingly somber, it is, in truth, the beginning of an incredible story of redemption and renewal.

In our own lives, we also face times of hardship that we wish would pass quickly, hoping for brighter days ahead. Yet, it is while we work through these challenges that we uncover our inner strength and gain a deeper understanding of who we truly are.

How we respond to difficult times reveals the core of our character. While we may not welcome pain, it is in these moments that we have the opportunity to grow, to rise, and to become stronger than we ever thought possible.

Let us embrace life’s challenges with faith and determination, knowing that within them lies the seed of redemption.

Shabbat Shalom