-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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What does it mean to truly pray?

Moshe Rabbeinu—the greatest prophet who ever lived—asked Hashem for a gift. Not because he lacked merit, but because he understood the deepest truth: everything we have is already a gift.

Yet Moshe’s prayer was not answered in the way he hoped.

This teaches us that prayer is not a way to control Heaven. It is a way to transform ourselves and build a relationship with the One who gives everything.

One of the first comments Rashi makes on this week’s parshah has always intrigued me.

The parshah opens with the words, “Va’eschanan el Hashem”—”And I pleaded with Hashem.” Rashi explains that the word va’eschanan refers to asking for a free gift. He adds something, that even the righteous, who have many merits, do not ask Hashem to answer their prayers because they deserve it. They ask only as recipients of His kindness.

Rashi learns this from Hashem’s words to Moshe, “V’chanoti es asher achon”—”I will show favor to whom I will show favor.” But when I first read those words, they seemed to say the opposite. Doesn’t the phrase “to whom I will show favor” imply that there are certain people whom Hashem chooses to favor?

And if that is true, wouldn’t someone praying with these words in mind still be hoping that they are one of those people? Isn’t that, in a sense, still relying on being worthy of receiving Hashem’s favor?

The more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder if Rashi was emphasizing something entirely different.

Perhaps the focus is not on who receives Hashem’s favor but on the fact that Hashem is One who gives with favor. Before the verse tells us anything about the recipient, it teaches us something about Hashem Himself. His kindness is never something we can demand. He gives because giving is part of His nature.

That changes the entire way we look at prayer.

There is a tremendous difference between saying, “Hashem should answer me because I deserve it,” and saying, “Hashem, I know You are compassionate, and I am placing my trust in Your kindness.”

One is a claim. The other is a relationship.

As I was thinking about this, another insight suddenly came to me. At first I wasn’t even sure it belonged here, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to fit.

The Torah describes Moshe as the humblest person who ever lived. If anyone had reason to recognize his greatness, it was Moshe. He spoke to Hashem more closely than any other person, brought the Torah to the Jewish people, and led them through the wilderness for forty years.

So why was he the humblest?

Perhaps the answer is that his humility wasn’t despite his closeness to Hashem. It was because of it.

The closer Moshe came to Hashem, the more clearly he saw that everything he possessed came from Hashem. His wisdom was a gift. His prophecy was a gift. His leadership was a gift. Even his ability to serve Hashem faithfully was itself a gift.

Maybe that is what real humility is. It is not pretending we have no gifts. It is recognizing where those gifts came from.

But Moshe’s humility teaches us something even deeper.

He approached Hashem in exactly the way Rashi describes. He asked for a gift. He did not claim that Hashem owed him anything. He prayed with complete humility.

And yet his request was still not granted.

He was not allowed to enter Eretz Yisrael.

That reminds us that the Torah is not teaching us a technique for getting what we want. It is teaching us how to stand before Hashem.

Sometimes we unconsciously turn prayer into a transaction. We think that if we pray enough, learn enough, or perform enough mitzvos, then Hashem should answer us the way we hope. But Moshe’s prayer teaches us otherwise.

The value of prayer is not only found in the answer we receive. It is found in the person we become through the asking.

If I only pray in order to get what I want, then unanswered prayers may leave me discouraged or even resentful. But if I pray because I want to approach Hashem truthfully, then every sincere prayer has value, regardless of the outcome.

That is true of all mitzvos. We do not serve Hashem because we can guarantee a particular result. We serve Him because it is true. We give charity because it is right to give. We pray because it is right to pray. We strive to become the people the Torah calls us to become, whether or not life unfolds according to our plans.

Perhaps that is why Moshe began his prayer with Va’eschanan.

The greatest man who ever lived did not stand before Hashem as someone collecting a debt. He stood before Him with gratitude, humility, and trust.

Maybe that is the real gift hidden in this week’s parshah. It is not simply learning how to ask Hashem for something. It is learning how to stand before Him.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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I spent the morning davening and learning the subjects that our sages permit on Tisha B’Av—the Zohar, Midrash, and the passages that speak about the destruction. After that, my body simply gave out. Years ago I could sit in yeshiva and learn throughout the fast. As I’ve gotten older, I simply can’t do that anymore. Most of the day I have been lying in bed, exhausted.

Yet while my body has grown weaker, the questions inside me have only become stronger.

All day I have wanted to express something that comes from the deepest place within me, but I feel almost incapable of reaching it. Instead, I find myself circling around the surface, describing my feelings without quite touching their source.

When I was younger, before I became religious, my songs came directly from inside me. My song Superman was really about my longing to become someone who could save the world. I didn’t necessarily realize that at the time, but looking back, I can see it now. The songs came from somewhere deep inside.

Since becoming religious, my writing has changed. Now it usually begins with something I learn in Torah. A verse, an insight from Chazal, an idea from the Zohar—it strikes something inside me, and then the writing begins. When I recognize a truth that resonates within me, I try to give it words.

But today I wondered whether I had forgotten how to begin from the inside.

I wish I could simply sit down, listen to my own soul, and write whatever it is trying to say. Maybe one day I will. Maybe there have already been moments when I have without realizing it. But sitting here now, I don’t feel that I have reached that place.

There is another feeling that has stayed with me all day.

I want to cry.

Not because crying itself is the goal, but because tears seem to come from a place that words cannot reach.

Our sages teach that “the gates of tears are never closed.” Those words have always moved me. If there is one gate that always remains open, then perhaps tears reach places that even words and prayer sometimes cannot.

But what if the tears never come?

Can a person cry inside while remaining dry-eyed? Is that still called crying? Or are tears something that must actually fall from our eyes?

Actors can make themselves cry. They think about certain things and bring themselves to tears. But they are usually doing it for an audience, for a performance. That isn’t what I want. I don’t want tears for a stage. I want tears before Hashem.

Then another thought entered my mind.

What if I simply asked Hashem to help me cry?

At first that felt strange. Shouldn’t tears come naturally? Shouldn’t they rise on their own from genuine pain?

But then I remembered that everything comes from Hashem. If He helps me reach a place of honesty that I cannot reach by myself, would those tears be any less real?

Perhaps not.

Then another question arose.

When Chazal speak about the gates of tears, are they speaking about the physical drops that come from our eyes? Or are tears simply the outward sign of something much deeper?

Perhaps tears are not the thing itself.

Perhaps they are what happens when the heart finally reaches a place of complete truth.

If that is true, then the real question is no longer, “Why can’t I cry?”

The real question is, “What is keeping me from that place of truth?”

I wondered if the answer might be regret.

Real regret is difficult. Human beings have an amazing ability to explain away their mistakes. We become comfortable with things that once would have disturbed us.

Imagine someone whose careless actions caused another person’s death. Not a murderer, but someone whose mistake had devastating consequences. Such a person would carry the weight of that knowledge for the rest of his life. The regret would not come simply from being told he had done something wrong. It would come from finally seeing the damage his actions caused.

Maybe that is true of all our sins.

Perhaps we struggle to regret them because we never truly see their consequences.

A careless word may seem small to me, but perhaps it wounded another person far more deeply than I know. That pain may have affected their family, their children, the way they treated someone else. One small action can travel much farther than we ever imagine.

A small act of dishonesty.

A moment of anger.

A broken promise.

A cruel remark.

We often measure our actions by how small they appear in the moment. Hashem measures them by how far they travel.

Perhaps if I could truly see the effects of my own actions—not to drown in guilt, but simply to understand reality—then regret would come naturally.

And perhaps from genuine regret, tears would come naturally as well.

Or perhaps regret is only one doorway.

Maybe tears come when all the walls we build around our hearts finally begin to fall. For one brief moment we stop defending ourselves before Hashem. We stop explaining. We stop rationalizing. We simply stand before Him exactly as we are.

Maybe that is what I have been searching for all day.

Not tears themselves.

But the place from which tears are born.

As I read back over these thoughts, I realize something I didn’t see when I first began writing.

I started this evening believing that I no longer knew how to write from within myself.

But perhaps I had it backwards.

Perhaps the Torah was never replacing my inner voice.

Perhaps it has been gently leading me back to it all along.

Maybe that is one of Torah’s greatest gifts. It does not silence the soul. It teaches us how to hear it.

Perhaps Tisha B’Av is not asking me to force myself to cry.

Perhaps it is inviting me to become honest enough that, if tears come, they come because my heart has finally reached the truth.

And maybe that itself is the beginning of rebuilding.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

My hope isn’t to answer prophetic questions or offer certainty where our great sages have exercised humility. Rather, it’s to explore how we experience suffering, how easily we become accustomed to both pain and blessing, and how the Nine Days invite us to see our history—and our present—with fresh eyes.

Whether you’re listening on a walk, driving to work, or sitting quietly with a cup of coffee, thank you for joining me. I hope this conversation brings you a little closer to the hope that has sustained our people through every generation.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. What helps you balance mourning with hope during the Nine Days?

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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Throughout human history, one of the greatest challenges has been learning how to respond to wrongdoing. When someone hurts us, betrays our trust, or commits terrible acts, our instinct is often to define that person by what they have done. Yet at the beginning of Sefer Devarim, Moshe reveals a different way. Standing before the Jewish people and preparing them for their future, he rebukes them for their failures—but he does so while protecting their honor. This seemingly small detail opens a much deeper question: How can we confront sin without losing sight of the person? How can we pursue justice without allowing anger to destroy our own humanity? Through Moshe’s example, and through the Torah’s teachings about punishment, justice, and even vengeance, we discover a profound truth: a person’s actions may deserve judgment, but every human being remains connected to the One who created them.

The opening of Sefer Devarim begins in a surprising way. Moshe gathers the Jewish people and reminds them of the places where they rebelled against G-D. Yet he does not list their sins openly. Instead, he alludes to them through place names. Rashi explains why: “Because of the honor of Israel.”

This is remarkable.

If anyone had the right to speak harshly, it was Moshe. He had carried the nation through forty years of complaints, rebellions, and failures. Their conduct had even contributed to the circumstances surrounding the mistake that would prevent him from entering the Land of Israel. Yet when the time came to rebuke them, he refused to strip them of their dignity.

Why?

If they had truly angered G-D, why preserve their honor?

Perhaps because the Torah distinguishes between a person’s actions and a person’s essence.

Actions can become corrupt. Deeds deserve judgment. Sin deserves rebuke. But a human being never becomes identical with his failure.

Moshe did not soften the truth. He simply refused to speak in a way that would make the people forget who they were.

This principle extends far beyond that moment in the wilderness.

A parent correcting a child...
A teacher correcting a student...
A manager correcting an employee...
A husband or wife speaking difficult words...

The question is not only whether the criticism is true. The deeper question is whether it preserves the dignity of the person who must hear it.

A person who feels only shame often becomes defensive. A person who knows that his greatness is still seen can find the strength to rise above his failure.

Perhaps that is why Moshe hid the rebuke within gentle allusions. He wanted Israel to remember their sins, but never to forget their greatness.

But the Torah does not stop there.

What about the criminal?

Surely someone who has committed terrible crimes has surrendered the right to honor.

Yet the Torah draws another distinction.

Justice must be done. Punishment is real. Evil is not excused.

Yet even after conviction, the Torah is careful not to inflict unnecessary humiliation. The deed may deserve punishment, but the person remains a human being.

Then the question becomes even harder.

What about war?

The Torah itself commands wars. Sometimes those wars involve the destruction of nations whose corruption has reached its end.

Has such a person lost the image of G-D?

Perhaps not.

The right to continue living in this world and being created in the image of G-D are not the same thing.

A person may, through his own choices, forfeit his right to life. But he does not cease to be a human being. Justice concerns what must now be done. The image of G-D concerns what he always was.

That distinction is not only for the one being judged.

It is for the one carrying out the judgment.

If I convince myself that another person is no longer human, something within me begins to die as well.

The Torah therefore demands something extraordinarily difficult: carry out justice without surrendering your own humanity.

This becomes even clearer when we consider revenge.

Human revenge says, “You hurt me, so I want you to suffer.”

The Torah’s concept of nekamah is something entirely different. Justice belongs to God. “Kel Nekamot Hashem“—”G-D of vengeance.” True vengeance is not the satisfaction of wounded pride but the restoration of G-D’s moral order.

Perhaps that is why Moshe is such a powerful example.

If anyone could have spoken from personal resentment, it was he. Yet there is no trace of settling scores. His rebuke was born entirely from concern for G-D’s people, not for his own wounded feelings.

The humble person is capable of justice because he has removed himself from its center.

And perhaps this is the deepest lesson of all.

We often think that preserving another person’s dignity is a statement about them.

Perhaps it is first a statement about us.

It reveals whether we still recognize the Creator in front of us.

The Torah does not teach that every person has the same role. Israel carries a unique covenant and mission. But beneath every difference lies a truth that precedes them all.

Every human being has the same Creator.

That truth does not erase justice.

It deepens it.

It reminds us that rebuke without humiliation, punishment without cruelty, war without hatred, and justice without personal vengeance are all possible only when we refuse to confuse what a person has done with what a person is.

The world constantly tempts us to define people by their worst moment.

The Torah asks us to do something far more difficult.

Never stop seeing the Creator’s image, even while confronting the creature’s sin.

That is not weakness.

It is the deepest form of justice.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

One of the greatest mistakes we make is believing that only permanent changes matter.

If a person remains poor after we give charity, we wonder what was really accomplished.

If someone leaves a prison concert and returns to the same cell, we ask whether anything truly changed.

If a Jew puts on tefillin for just a few minutes before returning to the routines and struggles of everyday life, it can seem as though the moment has come and gone.

We live in a world that measures success by visible, lasting results. The Torah invites us to measure something entirely different.

It teaches us to measure eternity.

This question has stayed with me throughout my years of visiting correctional facilities with A New Song USA. After the music ends and the chairs are folded away, the men return to their housing units. The prison walls are still there. Their sentences have not changed. Sometimes I have quietly asked myself, What did I really accomplish?

The same question can be asked about almost every act of kindness.

A hungry man receives a meal.

Tomorrow he will be hungry again.

A lonely person is encouraged.

Tomorrow they may struggle once more.

Did our actions really matter?

The Torah answers with a resounding yes.

Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler explains throughout Michtav MeEliyahu that we often evaluate actions by their external appearance, while Heaven evaluates them by what they accomplish within the soul. A single moment in which a person genuinely turns toward truth changes that person forever. The battlefield of free choice has shifted. Even if no one else can see it, something eternal has taken place.

This sheds light on a remarkable episode in the life of our forefather Yaakov. After leaving the Land of Israel, Yaakov realized that he had passed Har HaMoriah without stopping to pray where his fathers had prayed. He immediately turned back. Chazal teach that a miracle occurred, with the journey becoming miraculously shortened so that he could return.

Rabbi Dessler explains that this teaches us how precious even one moment of spiritual opportunity is. Heaven was willing to alter the ordinary order of nature so that one person would not lose one opportunity for closeness to Hashem.

Think about that.

One moment.

Not a lifetime.

Not decades of service.

One opportunity for inspiration.

If Heaven places such value on a single moment, perhaps we should as well.

The same truth is found in every mitzvah.

When someone puts on tefillin, the act may last only a few minutes.

When someone gives a dollar to charity, the money may be spent before the day is over.

When someone pauses to whisper a heartfelt prayer, the words disappear into the air almost as soon as they are spoken.

But nothing is actually lost.

Every mitzvah creates an eternal bond between the soul and its Creator. Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin teaches that every mitzvah reverberates throughout the spiritual worlds in ways we cannot perceive. We see only the physical action. Heaven sees the eternal reality it has created.

Perhaps that is why Chazal teach that whether one does much or little, the essential thing is that one’s heart is directed toward Heaven.

The world counts quantity.

The Torah treasures sincerity.

This has changed the way I think about prison concerts.

I no longer ask only whether someone’s circumstances changed.

I ask whether, for one hour, someone remembered that they were more than their mistakes.

Whether one song awakened hope.

Whether one lyric reminded someone that they were still created in the image of God.

Whether one conversation planted a seed that might grow years later.

If the answer is yes, then something happened that no prison wall can erase.

In truth, this is how all kindness works.

Imagine a man who has no food and is close to starvation. You give him enough to eat for one more day. At first glance, it seems like a small act. But what did you really give him?

You gave him another sunrise.

Another opportunity to pray.

Another chance to embrace a loved one.

Another opportunity to perform a mitzvah.

Another day to return to Hashem.

You did not simply give him food.

You gave him time.

And time is the very material from which eternity is built.

We often become discouraged because we cannot see the continuation of the good we do. We plant seeds whose harvest belongs to Hashem alone.

The Torah reminds us that no sincere act of goodness is ever wasted.

No honest prayer disappears.

No act of charity is forgotten.

No mitzvah is temporary.

No moment of inspiration is meaningless.

The world asks, “What changed afterward?”

The Torah asks a deeper question:

Who did this person become during that moment?

If, even for a few minutes, a soul remembered its Creator...

If, even briefly, hope overcame despair...

If, for one precious moment, a human being chose truth over darkness...

Then that moment did not vanish.

It entered eternity.

And perhaps that is why the smallest acts of kindness often carry the greatest weight.

Because what lasts only a moment in this world may last forever in the World to Come.

There are moments when we receive something so beautiful, so meaningful, or so true that keeping it to ourselves seems impossible. A Torah insight, a melody, a kind word, or even a breathtaking sunset can awaken an almost irresistible desire to turn to another person and say, "You have to see this." Is that longing simply a need for recognition, or is something deeper at work? A surprising passage in the introduction to the Tikkunei Zohar suggests that this impulse may lie at the very heart of what it means to receive a gift from Hashem. It begins with Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, hidden in a cave, learning the deepest secrets of Torah—and yet feeling an unexpected pain.

The introduction to the Tikkunei Zohar describes one of the most extraordinary periods in Jewish history. While hiding in a cave from the Roman government, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and his son merited that Eliyahu HaNavi would visit them each day, revealing to them the deepest secrets of the Torah.

Yet one detail surprised me.

The Tikkunei Zohar says that Rabbi Shimon was pained because he had no one to whom he could teach these mysteries.

At first, I found this difficult to understand.

If anyone in history experienced closeness to Hashem, surely it was Rabbi Shimon. He was learning directly from Eliyahu HaNavi. Why wasn’t that enough? Why would he feel the absence of students?

The question stayed with me because, in a much smaller way, I recognize something similar in my own life.

Whenever I finish writing a song that feels true—when an idea that had been hidden inside me finally becomes real—I immediately want to share it. If no one hears it, something feels unfinished.

At first I wondered whether that desire simply came from wanting approval.

But then I asked myself a question.

If no one ever knew that I wrote the song, yet the song helped thousands of people, would I still want it released?

Without hesitation, my answer was yes.

On the other hand, if everyone praised me for a song that carried no real message and changed no one’s life, I don’t think that praise would satisfy me.

That realization made me rethink Rabbi Shimon’s pain.

Perhaps he wasn’t looking for admiration.

Perhaps he was looking for someone to receive.

The Torah he was learning was simply too great to remain locked inside one person.

This reminds me of another figure in the Torah.

After his circumcision, Avraham Avinu sat outside his tent on an unbearably hot day. Chazal tell us that Hashem Himself made the day hot so that no travelers would disturb him while he recovered.

Yet Avraham was distressed.

Why?

Not because he was lonely.

Because he had no guests.

He had no one to whom he could give.

Maybe Rabbi Shimon experienced the very same pain.

Not the pain of someone who needed an audience, but the pain of someone carrying a gift with nowhere for it to go.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether this is true of every gift that comes from Hashem.

Kindness longs for someone to receive it.

Wisdom longs for someone to understand it.

Love longs for someone to embrace it.

Music longs for someone to hear it.

Perhaps some gifts are simply too great to be possessed.

They can only be passed on.

A spring does not struggle to give water. It gives because that is its nature.

A candle does not lose its flame by lighting another candle. In a sense, that is why it burns.

Maybe Torah is like that.

Maybe inspiration is like that.

Maybe every soul is like that.

The greatest gifts never come to rest inside the person who receives them.

They finally find their resting place when they become someone else’s light.

Perhaps that was Rabbi Shimon’s pain in the cave.

And perhaps, whenever we are privileged to receive something true from Hashem, the longing to share it is not always our ego asking to be seen.

Sometimes it is the gift itself asking to continue its journey.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

The Water of Life

Long before Deep Waters became a collection of essays, many of the same ideas found their way into my music.

I wrote “The Water of Life” in 1997 as a simple piano and vocal piece. Looking back, I realize it was expressing something I would spend years exploring through Torah study: that beneath life’s confusion, temptations, loneliness, and inner battles, there is a deeper source of life waiting to receive us.

Our sages compare Torah to water because water gives life, cleanses, refreshes, and always seeks the lowest place. When the soul feels overwhelmed by the noise of the world, it longs to return to those living waters—not merely for answers, but for peace.

This recording is intentionally simple. Just piano and voice. Sometimes the deepest truths don’t need elaborate arrangements. They only need a quiet heart willing to listen.

I hope this song brings you a few moments of that quiet.

— Gedalya

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There are moments when a seemingly small comment from one of the Torah's commentators opens the door to an entirely new way of seeing the world. This week, an observation by the Or HaChaim about the laws of vows raised a question I couldn't stop thinking about. The answer, at least as it occurred to me, points to a profound truth: the Torah does not merely teach us how to live within reality—it may help explain why reality itself continues to unfold the way it does.

One of the most profound ideas found throughout the teachings of our sages is that the Torah preceded creation. Before there was a world, there was Torah. The world was not created first with the Torah added afterward; rather, creation itself was fashioned according to the blueprint of the Torah.

This idea can sometimes seem abstract, until a simple observation suddenly brings it to life.

In this week’s Torah reading, the Torah introduces the laws of vows. The Or HaChaim notices something remarkable in the wording of the verses. The section begins by addressing the leaders of Israel before turning to the nation as a whole.

He explains that the leaders were first taught the laws concerning the annulment of vows, while the people were taught primarily the seriousness of making a vow and the obligation to fulfill one’s word. Hashem did not want vows to become something taken lightly. If people focused first on how a vow could be undone, they might not appreciate the gravity of making one in the first place.

This raises an interesting question.

In the days of Moshe, this distinction could be maintained because much of the Torah was transmitted orally. Today, however, the Oral Torah has been written down. We can all open a sefer (Jewish book) and discover that there is a process through which certain vows may be annulled under the proper circumstances.

If so, has the original concern disappeared?

At first glance, it would seem that it has. Yet when we look around, something surprising becomes apparent. Although the information is readily available, most people still do not think of vows in terms of how to escape them. The natural impression remains what the Torah intended from the beginning: a vow is something sacred, something not to be entered into carelessly.

Perhaps this reflects a much deeper truth.

If the Torah is the blueprint of creation, then the Torah does not merely teach us about the world—it shapes the world itself. The way the Torah presents an idea is itself part of the spiritual structure of reality.

The Torah presents the laws of annulling vows quietly, almost in the background, while placing the emphasis squarely on the sanctity of keeping one’s word. Because that is how the Torah itself is structured, the world continues to reflect that structure. Even though the information exists in books, reality itself has not become a place where people naturally approach vows by looking for loopholes. The Torah’s original emphasis continues to live within creation.

Perhaps this is true far beyond the subject of vows.

We often think that history, technology, or culture changes the way the world works. But from the perspective of Torah, the opposite is true. The world is constantly sustained according to the Divine wisdom embedded within the Torah. As long as Hashem wills creation into existence, it continues to reflect the inner order He established from the beginning.

This perspective changes the way we see everything around us. The Torah is not merely a guidebook for living within reality. It is the hidden architecture of reality itself.

When we study Torah, we are not simply learning about the world.

We are encountering the very wisdom through which the world continues to exist.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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The Question

I was recently asked a thoughtful question that many people sincerely wonder about.

We are taught that a child born to a Jewish mother is Jewish, while a child born to a non-Jewish mother is not considered Jewish according to halachah, even if the father is Jewish.

But why?

Some people explain that this is because, throughout history, the mother was usually the one who raised the child and passed on the family’s beliefs and traditions. If that is the reason, what happens when the situation is different? Suppose a Jewish father raises the child by himself while the non-Jewish mother is absent. Wouldn’t the child then be considered Jewish because the father provided the Jewish home and upbringing?

More generally, if the reason we associate with a mitzvah appears to change, does the halachah change as well?

To answer these questions, we must begin not with our own observations, but with the Torah itself.

A Brief Clarification

Before we begin, it is important to understand what this discussion is—and what it is not.

This article is not about race, ethnicity, or the value of one human being over another. Judaism has always taught that every person is created in the image of Hashem and possesses inherent dignity. Likewise, Judaism has always welcomed sincere converts, who become fully Jewish according to halachah.

The question we are examining is much narrower. It is simply this: How does the Torah define Jewish status? Our goal is not to offer personal opinions or social theories, but to understand the Torah’s own definition as explained by the Oral Torah.

The Torah’s Source

The Torah says:

“You shall not intermarry with them. You shall not give your daughter to his son, nor shall you take his daughter for your son. For he will turn your son away from following Me...” (Deuteronomy 7:3–4)

At first glance, these verses seem to be warning us about the spiritual dangers of intermarriage. But the Oral Torah teaches us that they contain another important lesson as well.

One of the things that often surprises people when they first study the Talmud is how much attention the Sages pay to what appears to be a very small detail in a verse. A single word or an unusual expression can become the source of an important halachic principle.

This is not because the Sages were inventing new ideas. It is because every word of the Torah is exact. Hashem gave both the Written Torah and the Oral Torah, and the Oral Torah teaches us how to read the precision of the Written Torah.

The Mishnah

The discussion begins in the Mishnah in Kiddushin 66b.

The Mishnah presents several different categories of marriages and explains how the status of the child is determined in each case. Sometimes it is discussing tribal lineage, such as whether a child is a Kohen, a Levi, or a Yisrael. Sometimes it is discussing the effects of prohibited marriages.

Finally, the Mishnah reaches the case that concerns us.

It teaches that when a woman is one with whom no valid kiddushin can take effect, such as a non-Jewish woman, the child follows the status of the mother.

The Mishnah tells us the rule.

The Gemara now asks where that rule is found in the Torah.

The Gemara

The Gemara first asks how we know that kiddushin does not take effect between a Jew and a non-Jew.

It answers from the verse:

“You shall not intermarry with them.”

The Gemara then asks another question.

Even if there is no valid kiddushin, where does the Torah teach that the child follows the mother’s status?

To answer this, the Gemara turns to the next verse:

“For he will turn your son away from following Me.”

Now the Gemara notices something remarkable.

The previous verse described two different situations.

First, it warned against giving a Jewish daughter in marriage to a non-Jewish man.

Second, it warned against taking a non-Jewish woman as a wife for a Jewish son.

If both marriages were mentioned, why does the Torah now refer only to “your son”?

The Gemara explains that the Torah is referring to the child born to your Jewish daughter. Even though the father is not Jewish, the Torah still calls that child “your son.”

From this, the Gemara derives the principle:

“Your son from a Jewish woman is called your son. Your son from a non-Jewish woman is not called your son, but her son.”

Ravina then clarifies that the verse is indeed speaking about the child born to the Jewish daughter. This removes any doubt about the Gemara’s meaning.

This becomes the primary Torah sources for the halachah that Jewish identity follows the mother.

Understanding What the Torah Is Teaching

Some people are surprised that such an important law is learned from what seems to be a subtle difference in the wording of a verse.

But this teaches us something profound about the Torah itself.

Every word of the Torah is exact.

The Sages were not creating a new law. They were revealing the meaning that Hashem had already placed within the Torah.

What About Different Family Situations?

This also answers the practical question.

Suppose a child has a Jewish father and a non-Jewish mother and is raised entirely in a Jewish home by the father.

Someone may say, “But this child identifies as Jewish.”

That may describe the child’s upbringing or personal identity. It does not determine the child’s halachic status.

According to the Torah, the child is not halachically Jewish. Recognizing that truth is not meant to distance the child. On the contrary, it makes it possible for the child, if he or she chooses, to undergo a proper conversion and become fully part of the Jewish people.

Now consider the opposite case.

Suppose a child has a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father and is raised without Judaism.

We would not conclude that the child has stopped being Jewish.

Instead, we recognize exactly what the Torah warned about:

“For he will turn your son away from following Me.”

The child remains Jewish according to halachah, even if the child’s upbringing has been influenced away from Torah.

The Torah defines the child’s status. Life’s circumstances do not redefine it.

Reasons and Sources

People often suggest beautiful reasons for the mitzvot.

Those reasons can deepen our appreciation and help us understand the wisdom of Hashem’s commandments.

But they are not the source of the law.

The source of the law is the Torah itself, as explained by the Oral Torah.

This is an important principle throughout Judaism.

King Solomon believed that the reason behind one of the Torah’s commandments did not apply to him. Yet the Torah teaches that even the wisest person cannot change a mitzvah based on his own understanding of its reason.

The same is true here.

The reason we may discover for a mitzvah can enrich our understanding, but it does not define the mitzvah.

Seeing the Oneness of Hashem

There is one final thought that I find especially beautiful.

Very often, after we learn a mitzvah, we begin to notice how the world seems to reflect it.

We may observe that mothers often have a unique influence during a child’s earliest years.

We may discover many other insights that help us appreciate the wisdom of Hashem’s commandments.

Those observations are valuable.

But they are not why the halachah exists.

Rather, because the Torah is true, we often discover that the world Hashem created reflects that truth.

The Torah comes first.

The world comes afterward and reveals the wisdom that was already there.

When we begin with the Torah instead of our own assumptions, we see something extraordinary.

The same Hashem who gave us the Torah also created the world.

It should not surprise us that the two fit together perfectly.

The Torah is not shaped by the world.

The world was created according to the Torah.

When we understand this, we begin to see not only the beauty of a single halachah, but the beautiful oneness of Hashem Himself, whose Torah and whose creation speak with one voice.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

One of the intriguing ideas brought down in the mystical tradition is that although Moshe Rabbeinu could have been the one to act against Zimri, Divine Providence arranged for Pinchas to do so instead.

Many explanations are offered by our sages. I’d like to suggest another possibility.

Think about something that happens in many families. Parents establish the rules and set the boundaries. Yet there are times when a child, already defensive, can no longer hear another word from a parent. The more the parent insists, the stronger the resistance becomes.

Then something unexpected happens.

A brother or sister quietly says the very same thing, and suddenly the child listens.

Why?

Perhaps because the words no longer feel like they are coming from “authority.” They come from someone who stands beside them rather than above them. The message is unchanged, but the messenger changes everything.

Perhaps something similar was taking place in our parsha.

When Zimri publicly sinned, the Jewish people were already living under an atmosphere of intense judgment. The plague had begun. The attribute of justice was already manifest. In such an environment, people often become defensive rather than reflective. They harden rather than open.

Had Moshe—the lawgiver, the leader, the embodiment of Torah and judgment—been the one to act, it is possible that many would have experienced it as another expression of authority. Their defensiveness might only have deepened.

But Pinchas was different.

He was not perceived in the same way as Moshe. He emerged from within the people. And when Pinchas acted, perhaps it forced a different kind of question:

“If someone like us could see so clearly what needed to be done, how could we have missed it?”

His action may have invited introspection where an act of authority might have triggered resistance.

Sometimes people do not need a louder voice from above.

Sometimes they need someone standing beside them who has the courage to act.

Perhaps this is one of the deeper lessons of Pinchas: there are moments when Hashem does not only choose the right message—He chooses the right messenger.

And sometimes the difference between resistance and awakening is not what is said, but who is willing to say it.

In Memory of Zev Ben Tzvi Yitzchok. May his Neshama have an Aliya

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Every so often, I come across a Torah commentary that stops me in my tracks. This week, it was the Ohr HaChaim on Parshas Pinchas. At first, his words seemed to contradict one of the most fundamental principles of teshuvah: that we should stop blaming others and take responsibility for our own choices. But the more I sat with his insight, the more I realized he wasn’t contradicting that principle—he was revealing another essential step in the journey back to Hashem. His comment led me to reflect on what it really means not only to change our actions, but to change our relationship with the things that once pulled us away from the people we were meant to become.

There are moments when a single Torah commentary forces us to rethink something we thought we understood.

For years, I’ve believed that genuine growth begins by looking inward. When we fail, we shouldn’t waste our energy blaming others. We should accept responsibility, examine ourselves honestly, and ask how we can become better people.

Then I came across a remarkable comment from the Ohr HaChaim on this week’s Parshas Pinchas. At first, it seemed to challenge everything I had come to believe. But the more I reflected on it, the more I realized that it wasn’t contradicting that principle at all. It was completing it.

The Torah commands the Jewish people:

“Harass the Midianites and strike them.”

The Ohr HaChaim points out something surprising. The Torah is not commanding Israel to act against Midian because of the plague that followed the sin at Baal Peor. The plague came from Hashem as a punishment for the Jewish people’s own actions. Instead, they are to oppose Midian because they intentionally caused the Jewish people to fall into immorality and idolatry.

At first glance, this seems difficult to understand.

We’re often taught not to point fingers at others. When we fail, we are supposed to look inward, accept responsibility, and ask ourselves how we can grow. If that’s true, why does the Torah direct Israel to turn its attention toward Midian?

The answer, I believe, is that the Torah is teaching two complementary truths.

First, every person is responsible for his own choices. The Midianites did not force anyone to sin. Every individual remained accountable, and that is why Hashem punished the Jewish people. The plague itself is proof that the responsibility ultimately rested with them.

But there is another truth.

Someone who deliberately tries to pull another person away from Hashem commits a different kind of evil. The Midianites didn’t simply present a temptation. They carefully devised a strategy to corrupt Israel spiritually. Their goal was to weaken the Jewish people by separating them from their relationship with Hashem.

Once a person has fallen, part of the process of healing is recognizing that what led him astray is not his friend—it is his enemy.

That doesn’t mean blaming others for our mistakes. It means refusing to make peace with the influences that encourage us to become someone we don’t want to be.

This is why the Ohr HaChaim emphasizes that Israel’s opposition to Midian could not be motivated by the suffering of the plague. That suffering came from Hashem as a consequence of Israel’s own actions. If they hated Midian simply because they had been punished, they would be avoiding responsibility.

Instead, they were to oppose Midian because Midian sought to destroy their souls.

Perhaps this is the deepest lesson of all.

Teshuvah is not complete when we merely stop doing the wrong thing. It reaches deeper than our actions. It asks us to change our relationship with the very thing that once drew us away from Hashem.

As long as we continue to admire what caused our spiritual decline, part of us will always remain connected to it. Healing begins when we see those influences for what they truly are—not because we hate people, but because we no longer wish to love what distances us from the life Hashem calls us to live.

That is why the Torah commands Israel to oppose Midian. The battle is not only against an external enemy; it is against the lingering attraction to a way of life that threatened their relationship with Hashem.

Whether it’s unhealthy relationships, destructive habits, addictive behaviors, or ideas that slowly erode our values, we must first acknowledge our own responsibility. But once we do, we should also learn to identify those influences for what they are. They are not neutral. They are obstacles to becoming the person Hashem created us to be.

Personal growth requires honesty about ourselves. Spiritual growth also requires honesty about the influences we allow into our lives.

Parshas Pinchas reminds us that these are not contradictory ideas. They are two sides of the same process of teshuvah.

We accept responsibility for our choices while refusing to embrace the forces that lead us away from Hashem.

Because in the end, teshuvah is not only changing what we do.

It is changing what we love.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

One of the enduring questions of Parshas Chukas is why Moshe Rabbeinu was denied entry into Eretz Yisrael after striking the rock. The consequence appears astonishingly severe, especially when measured against the greatness of Moshe and all that he had done for the Jewish people. While our Sages offer many profound explanations, perhaps there is another perspective worth considering. Drawing upon Rabbi Dessler's understanding of the resources, or kalim, that Hashem provides for a person's mission in this world, we may be able to view Eretz Yisrael not merely as a reward Moshe desired, but as a spiritual tool for the next stage of his avodah—and the events at Mei Merivah as revealing something about the timing of that next stage.

One of the most difficult questions in the Torah concerns Moshe Rabbeinu striking the rock.

Hashem instructed Moshe to speak to the rock. Instead, Moshe struck it. As a result, he was told that he would not enter Eretz Yisrael.

The obvious question is: Why is the consequence so severe?

Perhaps the answer can be understood through a principle that Rabbi Dessler discusses repeatedly.

Rabbi Dessler explains that the resources Hashem gives a person are not random. They are the exact tools necessary for that person’s mission in this world.

Imagine a company hires a plumber and gives him a hammer and nails but no wrench or pipe cutter. The employee could rightly ask, “How am I supposed to do the job I was hired to do?”

Hashem does not work that way.

Every soul is sent into this world with the precise tools required for its mission. Family, abilities, opportunities, challenges, strengths, and even limitations are all carefully measured according to what a person needs for his avodah.

In this sense, the resources we truly need are not things we must convince Hashem to give us. If they are genuinely necessary for our mission, Hashem provides them.

We see something similar with Adam HaRishon. The Torah never records Adam praying for a wife. Adam simply recognized that among all the creatures there was no suitable companion for him. Once that need became apparent, Hashem provided Chavah (Eve).

The resource followed the mission.

Prayer, of course, still plays a central role in our lives. Prayer refines us. It aligns us with Hashem’s will. It helps us become the people we are meant to be. Sometimes what changes through prayer is not the resource itself, but our readiness to receive it.

With this in mind, we can look at Moshe’s desire to enter Eretz Yisrael in a new light.

Our Sages teach that Moshe longed to enter the Land in order to fulfill the mitzvos that can only be performed there. He did not seek the Land for its beauty, its produce, or even its holiness alone. He sought it because it would enable a higher level of service to Hashem.

This is a remarkable teaching.

Moshe Rabbeinu, the greatest prophet who ever lived, viewed Eretz Yisrael not primarily as a destination but as a means. Not as a reward, but as a tool. Not as an accomplishment, but as an opportunity for greater avodah.

Seen through Rabbi Dessler’s understanding of kalim (resources), Eretz Yisrael itself can be viewed as a resource that Hashem grants when it is needed for the next stage of a person’s mission1.

If so, then the episode of Mei Merivah takes on a different meaning.

The Torah and our Sages hold Moshe accountable for a level of subtlety far beyond anything we can comprehend. Whatever occurred there was not ordinary anger. Relative to Moshe’s greatness, however, there was a trace of frustration that should not have been present.

And what does anger represent?

Anger is a momentary loss of alignment. It is a distraction from complete attachment to Hashem. For even the greatest person, it represents a moment in which something external interrupts perfect connection.

If Eretz Yisrael was to be the next stage of Moshe’s avodah, then the question was not whether he was worthy of entering the Land. The question was whether the event at Mei Merivah revealed something about the timing of that next stage.

At Mei Merivah, something was revealed.

Not about Moshe’s greatness.

Not about Moshe’s righteousness.

Certainly not about his love of Hashem.

Rather, the event revealed that the next stage of avodah represented by Eretz Yisrael was not the stage Hashem intended for him at that moment.

Measure for measure, the very event that demonstrated a subtle lack of alignment became the reason the next tool was withheld.

Not as rejection.

Not as abandonment.

But as a reflection of what was revealed.

This does not mean that reward and punishment do not exist. They are among the fundamental principles of Torah. Rather, the episode of Moshe striking the rock may invite us to look beyond punishment alone and consider another dimension of Divine judgment: whether a person is aligned with the resources and opportunities necessary for the next stage of his mission.

Hashem gives every person exactly what is needed for that mission. When a resource does not arrive, it is not necessarily because we have been denied something. Sometimes it is because Hashem, Who alone sees the entire picture, knows that the next stage has not yet become ours.

Only Hashem knows when that alignment is complete.

Perhaps that is one lesson of Moshe and the rock.

The greatest leader who ever lived was judged according to a standard that is difficult for us even to imagine. At his exalted level, the episode of Mei Merivah may have revealed something about the timing of the next stage of his avodah and his relationship to the unique spiritual resource that is Eretz Yisrael.

And so perhaps there is a lesson here for all of us.

When something we deeply desire does not arrive, our first reaction is often to ask, “Why was it withheld?”

But there is another question we can ask:

“Am I becoming the person for whom that gift would be the right tool?”

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Sometimes the answer is not yet.

And only Hashem knows the difference.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Dedicated in Loving Memory of My Father HaRav Yisroel Shalom ben Binyamin

This week’s reflection is dedicated in memory of my father, whose yahrzeit falls on the 10th of Tammuz.

There are people who leave us possessions, and there are people who leave us perspective. My father left me lessons that continue to unfold throughout my life, often revealing themselves in ways I could not have understood when he was here. May the learning, reflection, and inspiration that come from these words serve as a merit for his soul.

May his memory be a blessing, and may his neshamah have an aliyah.

A Note to Readers

The Jewish Wisdom Well is made possible through the generous support of readers who believe in sharing Torah insights, personal reflections, and meaningful conversations with a wider audience.

If a particular post speaks to you, or if you would like to dedicate a future Jewish Wisdom Well essay, spoken word piece, or weekly reflection in memory of a loved one, in honor of a special occasion, or for the merit of someone in need of prayers, I would be honored to hear from you.

To discuss a dedication, please reach out to me directly.

Together, we can continue sharing words of Torah, wisdom, and inspiration while honoring the people and moments that matter most.

At the beginning of Parshas Korach, the Torah tells us that "Korach took." But what exactly did he take? One explanation suggests that Korach took what he considered his greatest asset—his lineage, his status, and the strength of his argument. He came with reasons. He came with credentials. He came convinced that he was right. Yet the tragedy of Korach was not that he lacked intelligence or legitimacy. The tragedy was that he mistook his own perspective for the complete picture. This week's parsha invites us to consider a difficult question: How often do we enter an argument certain that we see the truth, while remaining blind to the larger plan that only Hashem can see? From Korach's rebellion to the challenges within our own homes and relationships, the lesson may be less about winning disputes and more about preserving the unity that can be lost because of them.

The opening words of this week’s parsha are surprisingly mysterious:

“Vayikach Korach” — “And Korach took.”

The obvious question is: What did he take?

One explanation, brought in the name of a student of the Ohr HaChaim, suggests that Korach took himself—not merely physically, but he took what he considered to be his greatest asset. As the verse continues by identifying his lineage, the implication is that Korach was relying upon his pedigree, his position, and his status as a member of the tribe of Levi.

In support of this explanation, another verse is cited where the word kach is associated with Torah. A person presents himself before Hashem with what is truly valuable. The greatest wealth a person possesses is not money or influence, but the spiritual treasures he has acquired.

What struck me about this explanation is that Korach did not come empty-handed.

He was not simply a troublemaker looking to stir up conflict.

Korach came with real credentials.

He belonged to a distinguished family. He possessed greatness. He gathered others who also had reasons to feel that they had been overlooked. Some were from Reuven, the tribe of the firstborn. Together they formed a compelling argument.

And perhaps that is the first lesson.

People rarely enter an argument believing they are wrong.

Most of us come carrying something.

We come carrying our experiences, our accomplishments, our sacrifices, our status, our understanding of the situation. We come armed with reasons that seem completely justified.

Korach’s argument felt persuasive because it was built upon something real.

Yet that was also where his test began.

The very area in which Korach possessed greatness became the area in which he struggled.

Had he belonged to another tribe, perhaps he would never have felt slighted at all. Had he not possessed such stature, perhaps he would not have viewed the situation through the lens of personal disappointment.

The same gift that elevated him also became the source of his challenge.

This may be true for many of us.

Often the place where we feel most strongly is the place where we are least objective.

When our honor is involved, when our role is involved, when our family is involved, when our life’s work is involved, it becomes difficult to see clearly.

We are no longer looking at the situation from the outside.

We are looking at it from inside our own pain.

From Korach’s perspective, he may have believed he was correcting an injustice.

The problem was that the issue under discussion was not one that could be decided solely by human logic.

The leadership structure of Klal Yisrael was not the product of politics or personal preference. It was established by Hashem Himself.

Korach looked at the situation and concluded:

“This doesn’t make sense.”

But he was evaluating a Divine arrangement based only upon the small portion of reality visible to him.

This may explain why some of the commentaries describe Korach as challenging not merely Moshe and Aharon, but the very order of creation itself.

Not because Korach wanted chaos.

Rather, because whenever a person assumes that his own understanding is the complete picture, he is no longer merely questioning a detail. He is questioning the wisdom behind the system.

The Arizal teaches that Korach was connected to the soul of Kayin, while Moshe was connected to Hevel.

Perhaps this sheds even more light on the story.

Kayin looked at his brother and felt that something was wrong.

He believed he had been overlooked.

He believed an injustice had occurred.

From his perspective, the situation demanded correction.

The tragedy was that he mistook his perception for the entirety of reality.

Korach appears to stand in a remarkably similar place.

He sees Moshe.

He sees Aharon.

He sees himself.

And he concludes that something is fundamentally unfair.

Perhaps the hidden opportunity of Korach was to repair the ancient failure of Kayin.

Can a person feel overlooked and still trust Hashem?

Can a person feel disappointed and still preserve unity?

Can a person acknowledge his pain without turning it into rebellion?

Sadly, the answer in Korach’s case was no.

And the consequences extended far beyond him personally.

An entire nation suffered.

Recently, I was thinking about a family that had been married for many years.

When they were young, certain decisions were made that were exactly right for that stage of life. Responsibilities were divided. Roles were assumed. Over time, an entire family structure was built around those choices.

Decades later, one spouse felt overwhelmed and wanted significant changes.

The feeling itself was understandable. People change. Circumstances change. What was manageable at thirty may be exhausting at sixty.

But what struck me was how easy it is to focus on the burden we are carrying while forgetting how many other things depend upon it.

What began as a single decision years earlier had become the foundation for countless other decisions. Finances, routines, expectations, and family dynamics had all grown around it.

The challenge was not whether change was needed.

The challenge was recognizing that one person sees only the burden they are carrying, while Hashem sees the entire structure.

Perhaps this is one of the deepest lessons of Korach.

The question is not whether we have legitimate concerns.

The question is whether we see the whole picture.

Most of us do not.

We see only the portion that touches us personally.

And that is why humility is so essential.

Before creating division in a home, before creating division in a community, before creating division among the Jewish people, we must ask ourselves:

What might I be missing?

What parts of the story are hidden from me?

What larger purpose might Hashem be accomplishing that I cannot yet see?

The tragedy of Korach was not that he lacked intelligence, greatness, or even arguments.

The tragedy was that he mistook his limited perspective for the complete picture.

And perhaps that is why the Torah records his story for every generation.

Because every one of us will eventually encounter a situation that feels unfair.

Every one of us will be tempted to believe that we see everything clearly.

And every one of us will be challenged to remember that Hashem sees far more than we do.

Sometimes the greatest act of wisdom is not winning the argument.

Sometimes it is preserving the unity that would be lost by continuing it.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Spoken Word

Mitzvos not only teach us about what to do, they also teach us something profound about how Hashem runs the world.

The mitzvah of challah appears in Parshas Shelach as the Jewish people stand on the threshold of entering Eretz Yisrael. Yet Chazal teach that it was specifically through the merit of this mitzvah that they were worthy to enter the Land in the first place—even though the mitzvah itself could not be performed until after they arrived. This remarkable idea suggests that Hashem does not only consider our past deeds. He also sees the sincere aspirations of our hearts, the mitzvos we are preparing to do, and the people we are striving to become.

In Parshas Shelach we are introduced to the mitzvah of challah, the commandment to separate a portion of dough and dedicate it to Hashem.

Chazal teach that the Jewish people merited to enter Eretz Yisrael because of the mitzvah of challah. At first glance, this is difficult to understand. The mitzvah could not even be fulfilled until after they entered the Land and harvested its produce. How could a mitzvah that had not yet been performed become the merit through which they entered the Land?

Perhaps the answer reveals a profound truth about how Hashem relates to us.

Hashem does not only see what we have done. He also sees what we genuinely desire to do. He sees the mitzvos we are striving toward, the goodness we are preparing for, and the spiritual goals that are already taking shape within our hearts.

The mitzvah of challah teaches us that sometimes the merit of the future can help open the doors of the present.

The Jewish people had not yet separated challah, but Hashem already knew they would. He saw a nation that would enter the Land, work its soil, knead its dough, and dedicate the first portion back to Him. That future reality already carried weight.

This idea extends far beyond challah.

As we approach every new year, every new opportunity, and every new stage of life, we often focus only on what we have accomplished. Yet Hashem also sees where we are heading. He sees the plans we are making, the kindness we hope to perform, the Torah we hope to learn, and the people we hope to help.

Of course, this is not about making empty promises. Hashem cannot be fooled. A person cannot simply declare, “If I become wealthy, I will give charity,” while showing no generosity with what he already has.

The true test is what we do with the resources currently in our hands.

A person who gives from little demonstrates what he would do with much. A person who makes time for Torah despite a busy schedule shows what he would do if he had more time. A person who helps others even when it is inconvenient reveals the direction of his heart.

When Hashem sees that a person’s ambitions are directed toward mitzvos, kindness, and serving others, it is reasonable to believe that He may provide additional opportunities and resources to help that person fulfill those goals.

This does not mean that every wealthy person earned every dollar because of righteousness, nor does it mean that every struggle is a sign of failure. Chazal teach us that Hashem’s accounting is far more complex than what we can see.

Sometimes a person is given wealth as a reward. Sometimes it is a test. Sometimes it is being held in trust until the proper time arrives for it to reach someone else.

This thought even sheds light on a trait that we usually view negatively: stinginess. While stinginess is certainly not a virtue, it is possible that Hashem may use even such a person as a temporary guardian of resources. What appears to be ownership may simply be stewardship until those resources are needed elsewhere.

The deeper lesson is not about judging others. It is about examining ourselves.

What are we striving toward?

What do our current actions reveal about our future intentions?

If Hashem were to look at our ambitions today, what would He see?

The mitzvah of challah reminds us that our future aspirations matter. The sincere desire to do good, when supported by present action, has tremendous spiritual power.

May we merit that all our ambitions be directed toward Torah, kindness, and serving Hashem. May we use whatever blessings we have wisely, and may Hashem grant us even greater opportunities to do good. Just as challah is associated with blessing, sustenance, and abundance, may we all merit to receive the blessings that accompany this precious mitzvah.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Part 1 — Before Effort Entered the World

When life was received, not earned

Before the first sin of Adam, the idea of effort as we know it simply did not exist.

A person did not have to chase livelihood, plan survival, or calculate how things would come together. The world itself responded directly to spiritual reality.

Everything was given.

In the Garden of Eden, sustenance came without struggle. Food was available without labor. Water flowed without needing irrigation. Even the physical world itself aligned itself with man’s spiritual state.

And when the Torah says, “By the sweat of your brow you shall eat bread,” it is not describing the original design of life—it is describing a descent.

A shift from a world of direct Divine flow into a world where blessing becomes hidden inside nature.

Effort, in its essence, is not the ideal. It is part of the curse-reality that followed the sin.

Even when Adam is told to “work and guard,” the Sages explain this does not mean physical labor. It refers to spiritual service—Torah, mitzvot, connection to Hashem.

Physical exertion only enters human life after the fall.

And from here a question begins to form:

If effort is not the ideal state of man, then why are we living inside it—and how much of it is actually required?

Part 2 — When Effort Becomes a Mitzvah in Our Minds

The quiet confusion between obligation and justification

Most people who consider themselves believers in Hashem still live with a very deep contradiction.

On one hand, they believe that everything comes from Hashem.

On the other hand, they invest themselves fully—completely—in effort.

They think about work constantly. They analyze every detail. They plan, calculate, strategize, and push forward with full intensity. Until eventually, their inner world becomes dominated by effort itself.

And when you ask them why, the answer is already prepared:

“Effort is a mitzvah. The Torah says ‘six days you shall work.’ We are obligated to work. We must provide for our families. This is our responsibility.”

But Rabbi Dessler makes a very sharp distinction here.

Effort is not a mitzvah in the list of 613 commandments.

There is no commandment that says a person must build their identity around work or invest their mind fully in physical survival.

Rather, “six days you shall work” is permission inside the framework of the curse of Adam—not a spiritual ideal.

Effort exists because of “by the sweat of your brow.” It is something we are required to participate in, not something we are meant to elevate into a value system.

The problem begins when effort stops being a necessity and becomes a mindset.

Because once effort becomes central, it begins to shape the person.

It pulls the mind into a world of constant calculation, pressure, ambition, and expansion in the physical.

And slowly, without noticing, a person begins to feel that success is dependent on how much they push.

But if that is true, then where does Hashem fit into the picture?

And that is where the confusion begins to deepen.

Part 3 — The Delicate Balance That Can Break a Person

Why both extremes distort clarity

The balance between trust in Hashem and human effort is one of the most delicate areas in a person’s life.

Because the mistake is not only in one direction.

If a person reduces effort too much when effort is actually required, they may face failure, regret, and even spiritual confusion. At times, this can lead to frustration that eventually affects their emunah itself.

But if a person increases effort beyond what is truly necessary, something else happens.

Their mind begins to shift toward the physical world as the primary arena of success. They begin to live inside effort itself.

And even though they still believe in Hashem, their internal focus slowly moves elsewhere.

Even Moshe Rabbeinu himself, in the episode of the spies, is told “send for yourself.” The Torah leaves room for human perception, human responsibility, and human uncertainty.

Because the test is not removed—even at the highest level.

There is always a risk of miscalculation.

Too much reliance on effort, or too little effort—both can distort clarity depending on the situation and the person.

And that is why this area is so dangerous and so subtle.

Because a person can be completely sincere, and still slightly misaligned.

And from that slight misalignment, entire consequences can unfold.

Part 4 — The Subtle Beginning of the Spies

When intention is pure, but direction begins to shift

The request to send spies did not begin as rebellion.

It did not begin as rejection of Hashem.

And it certainly did not begin as lack of belief.

On the contrary—the Jewish people fully believed that Hashem would bring them into the land. They had seen miracles constantly. They lived with the Clouds of Glory. Their existence was surrounded by open Divine protection.

So the inclination came in a more subtle form.

They approached Moshe Rabbeinu and said: “Send men before us.”

At first glance, their reasoning sounded practical. They wanted preparation. They wanted clarity. They wanted to understand the land they were about to enter.

They even framed it in spiritual terms.

Hashem promised them a land of goodness—houses filled with wealth and blessing. But perhaps, they reasoned, the inhabitants will hide their possessions. If so, how will they locate what Hashem already promised them?

They also added another concern: if things unfold too slowly or too confusingly, it could lead to a misunderstanding of Hashem’s promise, and even a desecration of His name.

So, their intention, on the surface, was to ensure clarity and protect Divine honor.

But this is exactly where the subtle shift begins.

Because even when intention is pure, the introduction of unnecessary natural calculation into a generation that is meant to live above nature already signals a change in direction.

It is not outright sin.

It is a movement.

A shift.

A small step toward “we also need to do something in the natural system.”

And once that step is taken, even unknowingly, perception itself begins to open to distortion.

Part 5 — When Perception Replaces Trust

The moment reality is no longer seen clearly

When the spies entered the land, they were not simply observing physical reality.

They were interpreting it.

And interpretation changes everything.

What should have been seen through the lens of Divine promise became filtered through human calculation, fear, and limitation.

The land was still the land Hashem promised—but it was now being viewed through the framework of effort, strategy, and survival.

And once that shift happens, even truth begins to feel overwhelming.

This is the deeper lesson of the spies.

Not that they denied Hashem.

But that they allowed a subtle shift toward natural calculation to shape their perception of reality.

And from there, fear becomes possible.

Doubt becomes possible.

And distortion becomes possible.

Because once trust is no longer the primary lens, the mind begins to fill the gap with its own interpretation.

And that is the real danger.

Not open rebellion.

But a slow reorientation of how reality is seen.

And that brings the entire discussion back to its root.

Because this is not only about the generation in the desert.

It is about every person who tries to balance trust in Hashem with effort in the world.

The question is not only what we believe.

It is what direction our inner world is being trained to move in.

And that is where the real test always lies.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Spoken Word

Bava Kamma is often studied as a tractate of damages, responsibility, and liability. Yet beneath its legal discussions lies a profound philosophy of life. The Rambam teaches that once a person fulfills the obligations that the Torah places upon him, whatever follows is no longer a result of his negligence but part of Hashem’s governance of the world. This insight invites us to reconsider where human responsibility ends, where faith begins, and how recognizing that boundary can free us from carrying burdens that were never ours to bear.

One of the most profound lessons I have found in Bava Kamma appears in the Rambam’s discussion of damages caused by a person’s animal.

The Torah places responsibility upon an owner to guard his animal and prevent it from causing harm. Negligence creates liability. But the Rambam explains that when a person has fulfilled his obligation and taken the precautions that the Torah requires, he has done his part. If damage occurs afterward, it is no longer attributed to his failure.

At that point, the event is considered to have come from Heaven.

This is not merely a legal ruling. It reveals a fundamental principle of Jewish thought.

Many people live with the feeling that they are responsible for everything that happens around them. Even after putting forth sincere effort, they continue carrying the burden of outcomes beyond their control. When something goes wrong, they assume it must be a reflection of their own failure.

The Torah teaches otherwise.

Hashem did not give us the Torah because He wanted to transfer control of the world into human hands. He gave us the Torah so that we could become partners in His world.

A partner is not the owner.

A partner has responsibilities, obligations, and duties. But once those duties have been fulfilled, the rest remains in the hands of the One who truly governs creation.

This distinction is essential.

The Torah carefully defines what is expected of us. Sometimes we understand those expectations ourselves. Sometimes we need teachers, rabbis, and scholars to help us understand them. But once a person has honestly fulfilled what the Torah requires, he has reached the boundary of human responsibility.

Beyond that boundary lies Divine Providence.

The owner who properly guarded his animal is not the master of every future event.

The farmer who planted correctly is not the master of the weather.

The parent who acted responsibly is not the master of every circumstance that may arise.

The doctor who applied his knowledge is not the master of life and death.

Hashem alone remains the Master of outcomes.

This perspective can be difficult to accept because we naturally seek control. We want to believe that if we make no mistakes, nothing painful will happen. Yet life constantly reminds us that reality is more complex than that.

Judaism teaches that there are countless factors operating beyond human vision. We see only a small portion of the story. The Creator sees the whole.

Our sages teach that souls have histories we do not know. There are purposes, rectifications, and journeys that stretch beyond a single lifetime. Events that appear random to us may be connected to realities hidden from our understanding.

There is a well-known story of a child born to parents who waited many years to have children. In their longing, they helped build a mikvah for their community. Eventually they merited a child.

Tragically, the child later drowned in that very mikvah.

To human eyes, this is heartbreaking and almost impossible to comprehend.

Yet the tradition relates that this soul had a unique mission connected to purification, and that the sanctity of the mikvah provided the completion that the soul required.

Whether or not we can fully grasp such accounts, they remind us of an important truth: we do not possess the entire picture.

This does not remove grief.

It does not erase suffering.

It does not answer every question.

But it does remind us that Hashem’s management of the world extends far beyond what we can see.

The Rambam’s ruling teaches something remarkable about the person whose property was damaged as well.

If the owner truly fulfilled his obligation, then there is no one left to blame.

The loss did not come from human negligence.

It came from Heaven.

That realization requires deep faith. It is far easier to search for someone to accuse than to acknowledge that an event entered our lives through Divine Providence.

Yet this is one of the foundations of Emunah.

Our task is not to control the world.

Our task is to fulfill the responsibilities that Hashem has given us.

Once we have done so, we step back and recognize that the world continues to be guided by the One who created it.

The Torah tells us where our responsibility begins and where it ends.

Faith begins where responsibility ends.

That boundary is one of the greatest gifts the Torah gives a person, because it frees him from carrying burdens that were never his to bear.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

The Torah's description of the Levites includes a detail that can easily be overlooked: their service had both a beginning and an end. They entered during the years of their greatest strength and eventually stepped aside for the next generation. This raises an intriguing question. Had the firstborn retained their original role in Divine service, would they have faced the same transition? Exploring the difference between the firstborn and the Levites reveals a deeper lesson about natural gifts, appointed responsibilities, and the challenge of knowing not only when to step forward, but also when to step aside.

This week’s parsha contains a detail that at first seems purely practical. The Levites are counted for service beginning at age twenty-five, spending years preparing for their responsibilities, and eventually serving in full capacity during the years of their greatest strength. Yet at age fifty, their primary service comes to an end.

The Torah is teaching us something profound.

The Levites were not merely given a job. They were given a beginning and an end.

That stands in striking contrast to the firstborn.

Originally, the service of Hashem was intended to be performed by the firstborn sons of Israel. Only after the sin of the Golden Calf was that privilege transferred to the tribe of Levi.

The more I think about it, the more I see these as two different models of serving Hashem.

The firstborn represents natural strength.

When Yaakov blesses Reuven, he calls him “my strength and the first fruit of my vigor.” The firstborn carries something unique. He is the first expression of a person’s creative power in the world. There is an inherent greatness there.

Yet the Torah repeatedly teaches that greatness alone is not enough.

Kayin was firstborn.

Yishmael was firstborn.

Esav was firstborn.

Reuven was firstborn.

Again and again, the Torah distinguishes between possessing greatness and directing greatness.

Perhaps that was part of the challenge of the firstborn.

The firstborn was not chosen because he had been appointed. He was chosen because of what he already was.

His task was to recognize the strength Hashem had given him and dedicate it to a higher purpose.

That is an extraordinary responsibility.

A person must know his gifts.

He must know his abilities.

He must know his influence.

And then he must willingly place all of it in the service of Hashem.

But there is another challenge hidden within that responsibility.

A person must also know his limits.

The Levites were told when to begin their service and when to end it.

The firstborn, however, represents something much more internal.

If the firstborn had remained the ones performing the service, perhaps they too would have served only during the years of their greatest strength. Human nature does not change. The body still ages. Strength still rises and falls.

But who would have told them when their season had ended?

That is where the challenge becomes even greater.

It is difficult to recognize one’s strengths.

It may be even more difficult to recognize when those strengths are no longer what they once were.

The Levite was given boundaries by the Torah.

The firstborn would have had to create those boundaries within himself.

He would have needed the humility to ask:

Am I still serving Hashem in the best possible way?

Am I still the right person for this task?

Am I holding onto this role for the sake of Heaven, or because I have become attached to it?

These are not easy questions.

Many people can step forward.

Far fewer can step aside.

We often think leadership is about accepting responsibility. The Torah reminds us that leadership is also about relinquishing responsibility when the time comes.

The Levites knew from the beginning that their role was temporary.

At twenty-five they entered.

At fifty they stepped aside.

The service continued.

The Mishkan continued.

Hashem’s presence remained among the people.

The role was never theirs. It had merely been entrusted to them.

Perhaps this is one of the hidden lessons behind the transfer from the firstborn to the Levites.

The firstborn symbolizes strength.

The Levite symbolizes strength guided by structure.

The firstborn symbolizes potential.

The Levite symbolizes responsibility.

And the Levite’s age limits teach a final lesson:

Not only must we learn how to use our gifts.

We must learn that those gifts were never truly ours.

They were given to us for a time, for a purpose, and in service of something greater than ourselves.

There is strength in stepping forward when Hashem calls.

There is also strength in stepping aside when Hashem calls someone else.

The first strength is admired.

The second may be even greater.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

The Torah assigns a surprising variety of roles to the silver trumpets. They gather the nation, direct its journeys, accompany times of war, and are sounded during festivals and offerings. At first these seem like unrelated functions. But perhaps the Torah is teaching that every stage of Jewish life requires the same thing: remaining aligned with our purpose and our relationship with Hashem.

In this week’s parsha, Hashem commands Moshe to make two silver trumpets.

At first, their purpose seems purely practical.

The trumpets would be used to gather the people. When they were sounded, the nation would assemble at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.

Then the Torah describes another use. The trumpets would signal when the camps were to begin their journeys.

A few verses later, the same trumpets appear in a completely different setting. If war broke out and enemies rose against Israel, the trumpets would be sounded once again.

Then, at the end of the section, the Torah gives yet another use. The trumpets would be blown on festivals, on joyous occasions, and together with certain offerings brought before Hashem.

At first glance, these seem like four unrelated purposes.

Gathering.

Traveling.

War.

Celebration.

But perhaps they are all expressions of a single idea.

The Jewish people have a mission in this world.

The first task is to gather together around that mission. A nation cannot move forward if it is scattered. The trumpets call everyone to assemble before Hashem.

Once gathered, the nation must move. The purpose is not simply to stand together, but to journey forward. The trumpets signal that it is time to leave the comfort of the present and continue toward the destination Hashem has set before them.

Yet whenever a people pursues a meaningful mission, obstacles arise.

Sometimes those obstacles appear as external enemies. Sometimes they appear as fear, confusion, distraction, or the constant pull away from what truly matters.

The Torah’s response is not to abandon the mission. The trumpets are sounded once again. They remind the people who they are and why they are moving forward. The sound becomes a call to refocus, to remember, and to place their trust in Hashem.

Then comes the final stage.

Joy.

Festivals.

Offerings.

The trumpets are sounded not only when there is a need to gather or a need to fight. They are sounded when standing before Hashem in gratitude and celebration.

Perhaps this is the progression hidden within the verses.

First we gather.

Then we journey.

Then we overcome what stands in our way.

And finally we rejoice before Hashem.

The same trumpets accompany every stage because they are really expressing the same message.

Do not lose your direction.

Do not forget your purpose.

Do not become distracted from the mission for which you were called.

Whether the nation is assembling, traveling, confronting challenges, or celebrating sacred moments, the sound remains the same.

One people.

One mission.

One sound.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Spoken Word

This week, while learning the opening pages of Bava Kamma, I found myself stuck on something that seemed almost too simple to notice. The Torah begins its discussion of damages by speaking about an ox that gores. Yet it never stops to explain why the owner is responsible. It simply assumes that he is. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this unspoken assumption may contain one of the Torah’s most important lessons about how human beings are meant to live in the world.

The opening laws of damages in the Torah begin with a familiar case:

“When a man’s ox gores...”

At first glance, this seems straightforward. An ox causes damage, and the Torah explains the owner’s obligations.

But the more I sat with the verse, the more something began to bother me.

The Torah never explains why the owner is responsible.

It does not begin by saying, “A person must carefully watch his possessions.”

It does not begin by establishing a general principle that people are accountable for the things they own.

Instead, it simply starts with the case itself:

“When a man’s ox gores...”

Who is the Torah speaking to?

Certainly not the ox.

An animal has no obligation to keep the Torah. An animal is not a moral agent. It acts according to its nature.

The Torah is obviously speaking to the owner.

What is remarkable is that it never feels the need to say so.

Responsibility is assumed.

The Torah begins after the principle has already been accepted.

The more I thought about this, the more profound it seemed.

Today, we often treat responsibility as something that must be proven, negotiated, or assigned after the fact. When something goes wrong, the instinct is often to ask who can be blamed, what excuse can be found, or how responsibility can be shifted elsewhere.

The Torah begins from an entirely different place.

If it is your ox, responsibility already begins with you.

That does not mean you are automatically guilty of negligence. The Torah spends many chapters discussing different circumstances, levels of responsibility, and exemptions.

But before any of those discussions can take place, something more basic is already understood:

What belongs to you falls within your sphere of responsibility.

That idea reaches far beyond oxen.

A person leaves a shopping cart loose in a parking lot.

A person drives while distracted.

A person allows a dog to roam without proper control.

A person spreads information without checking whether it is true.

A person develops a powerful technology and releases it into the world without considering its consequences.

The details change, but the principle remains the same.

The Torah’s first discussion of damages is teaching that ownership is not merely a privilege. Ownership creates responsibility.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons the Torah was given.

Our forefathers were able to look at the world and perceive truths that most people overlook. They understood that actions have consequences and that human beings are accountable for what they bring into the world.

Most of us do not see things so clearly.

We separate ourselves from the consequences of our actions.

We say, “The dog did it.”

“The car did it.”

“The computer did it.”

“The algorithm did it.”

The Torah responds:

Your ox did it.

Which means that you have something to answer for.

An ox in the ancient world was a form of power.

Today we possess different forms of power.

We own vehicles, businesses, technologies, platforms, tools, and resources that can affect countless people.

The question raised by the Torah is not merely what we own.

The question is whether we recognize our responsibility for the things we set loose in the world.

Perhaps that is why the Torah begins so abruptly.

It does not argue for responsibility.

It assumes responsibility.

The surprise is not that the ox gored.

The surprise is that human beings need to be reminded that the ox was theirs.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

Spoken Word

Today, Fifth Avenue will fill with Jewish life.

There will be flags, songs, families, schools, and communities gathering together in public. In a world where many Jews feel vulnerable, there is something meaningful about standing openly and refusing to disappear.

Many people I respect will be there.

I won’t be writing this as a criticism of them.

Instead, I want to share the way I am participating in the day.

Because whenever I see a large Jewish gathering, I find myself thinking about another gathering that cannot be photographed.

A boy learning Aleph-Beis.

A woman whispering Tehillim.

A businessman finding time for a daf before work.

A tired father opening a sefer before bed.

A Jew struggling to keep one more mitzvah.

No helicopters circle overhead for these moments.

No crowds gather to watch them.

No headlines are written about them.

Yet our tradition teaches that these quiet acts are not small at all. They are the foundation upon which Jewish life rests.

The Jewish people were not created by a parade.

We were created at Sinai.

Before there was a state, before there were organizations, before there were movements and institutions, there was Torah.

And every generation of Jews that carried that Torah forward became another link in a chain that stretches back thousands of years.

That thought has been with me all week.

As Jews gather on Fifth Avenue, I find myself thinking about the parade that never appears on a map.

The parade of mitzvos.

The parade of pages turned.

The parade of prayers whispered.

The parade of ordinary Jews trying, often imperfectly, to remain connected to Hashem.

That parade has been moving for centuries.

Through Spain and Poland.

Through Morocco and Yemen.

Through prosperity and poverty.

Through peace and persecution.

And it continues today.

So if you are marching, march in good health and with pride.

And if, like me, you are spending part of the day with a sefer, a prayer, a mitzvah, or a moment of reflection, know that you are participating too.

Because the deepest parade of the Jewish people has never moved through Fifth Avenue.

It moves quietly from generation to generation.

One mitzvah at a time.

SPOKEN WORD

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