Alone, or Set Apart? A National and Personal Dilemma

Reflections on Parshat Kedoshim and Yom HaAtzmaut

There is a word that appears several times in Tanach with a haunting, resonant power.

In last week’s Parasha, it describes the unsettling figure of an outcast: “Badad yeshev, michutz la’machaneh moshavo.” The metzora — often mistranslated as a leper — sits alone. Sent outside the camp, the metzora isn't just ritually "unclean." He is socially erased. He dwells in a forced vacuum, required to warn others to stay away.

At the beginning of Eicha, it describes a nation: “Eicha yashva badad ha’ir rabati am.” A city once teeming with life now sits — utterly alone.  Of all the horrors that happened to Jerusalem in its destruction, the first and foremost was that it is now "alone".

there is an ache of being set apart, of being kept at arm’s length by the rest of the world

At first glance, these two uses of badad feel worlds apart. One is a consequence of personal failing; the other is a collective tragedy. Yet, in a deeper sense, they map out the same raw human experience: the ache of being set apart, of being kept at arm’s length by the rest of the world.

In general, Badad, or being alone, is not a good place to be. The first time the words “not good” appear in the Torah is in the phrase Lo tov heyot ha’adam levado, “It is not good for man to be alone” (Bereishit 2:18). And yet, that same language of separation appears elsewhere in the Torah (Bamidbar 23), transformed into a praise and blessing: “Hen am levadad yishkon u’vagoyim lo yitchashav.” A nation that dwells alone, not counted among the nations.

Here, being "apart" isn't a punishment; it’s an identity. It is essential to who we are. We pride ourselves on living among the nations while retaining our separateness and uniqueness, with our own value system. In fact, we see this as a great positive. It is the essence of the repeated exhortation in this week’s Parshat Achrei Mos-Kedoshim—that we should strive to be Holy. According to Rashi’s famous comment, this means we should strive to be Perushim—separate. Separate from the ethics and values of the surrounding culture, following the instruction of the Torah to live with divine values.

However, the world has often looked at the separateness of the Jewish people through the same lens that Haman used: “There is a certain people, scattered and different... their laws are incompatible…” To the world, our distinctness often looks like defiance. Our difference is treated as a reason for alienation.

This year, as we approach Yom Ha’atzmaut, that tension isn't just a theological idea; it feels like a lived reality.

Israel today exists in a strange, jarring paradox. On one hand, we see military successes that would have seemed unimaginable just a short time ago. Threats—whether Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, or other enemies—that loomed over us for decades have been dismantled with a precision that feels, to many, like an open miracle. Moreover, we have accomplished this while striving to act with moral restraint. We have fought a war under intense scrutiny, bending over backward (at times, to my mind, perhaps too much) and putting our own soldiers at risk to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties. We warn them to get out before bombing, only to find ourselves criticized by increasingly loud voices on both the right and left, accusing Israel of genocide and war crimes while supporting our enemies. At times, it can feel as though the walls are closing in and we are being cast as a pariah state.

The criticism isn't just coming from our enemies; it feels like it's coming from everywhere. We aren't just being debated; we are being pushed to the margins of the so-called "family of nations." As for our great friend, the United States, we must be incredibly grateful to Hashem for the leadership of President Trump, who, despite his many faults, proved to be a historic friend to Israel—particularly in his efforts to confront the accursed Iranian leadership. Nevertheless, there is growing concern about the post-Trump era. We see it on the Democratic side, with 40 senators voting this week to embargo Israel, and we see it increasingly on the right as well.

In a world that demands simple categories, there is less and less room for people who do not fit into them.

Even more painful is the fact that we cannot find a unified shelter within our own community. The Jewish world itself feels fractured. For many, Yom Ha’atzmaut is a moment of transcendent religious significance, a time for Hallel and great rejoicing. For others, particularly in the Haredi world, the day is ignored or even criticized with severity—viewed through a lens of antagonism toward the secular state.

We are living in a world that seems to be losing its center. Nuance has become a casualty. Conversations are no longer layered; they are flattened into slogans. The "middle ground"—the space for complexity and careful thought—is shrinking. In a world that demands simple categories, there is less and less room for people who do not fit into them.

In such a world, “middle of the roaders” such as myself find themselves standing in the uneasy space between these two poles.

There is a specific kind of loneliness—a badad of the soul—that comes when you can hear the truth in the arguments of both sides, yet find yourself unable to join either camp fully. When most people have moved to one extreme or the other, those who seek a nuanced, integrated path often end up sitting "outside the camp" of both groups. We celebrate the miracle, yet we carry the weight of the critique. We feel “aloneness" even when our own people surround us.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik famously began his work The Lonely Man of Faith with the stark words, “I am lonely.” He wasn't talking about a lack of friends. He was talking about the inherent loneliness of a person of faith — the realization that your deepest commitments might never be fully understood by the world around you. There is a loneliness that comes from being pushed away, and there is a loneliness that comes from being fundamentally different.

In this atmosphere, the line between badad and levadad starts to fray. We have to ask ourselves: Is this "aloneness" a rejection—or a calling? Is it the result of being cast out, or the inevitable price of standing for something?

This year, the world's silence makes that loneliness unmistakable. 

The metzora is alone because he lost his place in the community. But the Jewish people are levadad because we have a specific, separate purpose.

Yom Ha’atzmaut has always been a paradox. It celebrates our return to the stage of history—our right to stand as equals among the nations. But it also highlights just how lonely our path is. This year, the world's silence makes that loneliness unmistakable. And the ever-increasing divide between the Haredim and the rest of the citizenry is never more apparent than on Yom Ha’atzmaut. It is particularly jarring for people like myself who follow the shita of the Ponovezher Rav zt’l and Yibadel Lachaim Rav Yisroel Meir Lau, who emphasize that Hallel needs to be said as Hakaros Hatov, even while omitting the bracha because of halakhic considerations, while at the same time recognizing it is obvious that one does not say Tachanun. We treat the day with the joy and gravity that it deserves, while observing others treating it as a completely ordinary day, not even worthy of as much note as Purim Katan.

Perhaps we are being asked to re-read our situation. Perhaps what we are feeling isn't just badad—isolation imposed from the outside—but also a forced reawakening of levadad—the sanctity of a people that must stand alone.

Our tradition suggests that a time will come when we realize that our alliances are fragile and our "supports" are thin—and that, ultimately, we have no one to lean on but our Father in Heaven.

Our hearts go out on Yom HaZikaron to those living it on the front lines. To the soldiers who stand guard while the world looks away. To the families whose tables have a permanent, agonizingly empty chair. To the parents living in the "Badad" of 3:00 AM, worrying about their children’s fate, or worse. They are standing at the edge of the camp, literally and figuratively.

The word badad can mean exile and pain, but it can also be the threshold of a deeper understanding. The challenge this Yom Ha’atzmaut is not to deny the loneliness, but to elevate it. We are a nation that was never meant to be measured by the approval of the world or the simplicity of a political camp. If we find ourselves standing alone, it is because we are standing in a place where only the truth can survive. In a noisy, polarized, and crowded world, standing levadad—with our values intact and our faith unshaken—is the hardest path to walk. But it is the only one that leads us to the ultimate Geulah.

Published in the Jewish Press 4/22/2026

Chametz and Matzah Together: The Message of the Korban Todah for Our Time

Parshat Tzav, Pesach, and the Daf Yomi Moment

As we prepare for Pesach and remove chametz from our homes, Parshat Tzav presents us with a striking paradox. The Torah’s central offering of gratitude—the Korban Todah—is brought not with matzah alone, but with both chametz and matzah:

 “Al challot lechem chametz yakriv Korbano” (Vayikra 7:13).

At the very moment we are eliminating chametz from our lives, the Torah tells us that true thanksgiving requires it. And for many of us, we are not only encountering the Todah in the weekly parashah, but in Daf Yomi as well. These very sugyot—the structure of the Todah, its forty loaves, the balance between chametz and matzah—are being learned right now, giving this idea a second point of entry: not only through the parashah, but through the daily rhythm of learning.

For anyone preparing for Pesach, this combination is almost jarring. The very substance we are about to eliminate so carefully becomes part of the Torah’s central expression of gratitude.

But that tension is not incidental — it is the message.

A Rare Presence of Chametz

In fact, the korban todah is one of only two offerings in the entire Mikdash service that include chametz (the other being the shtei ha-lechem of Shavuot). Otherwise, the Beit HaMikdash is, in a sense, “Kosher L’Pesach” all year long; chametz is absolutely forbidden.

That makes the Todah all the more unusual. Here, chametz is not excluded—it is required.

Gratitude After Danger

Chazal define the context of the Todah with precision. The Gemara (Berachot 54b) teaches that four categories of people are obligated to give thanks: one who crosses the sea, one who travels through the desert, one who recovers from illness, and one who is released from imprisonment. These are not routine experiences. They are moments of real danger followed by real deliverance.

In the time of the Beit HaMikdash, such a person would bring a Korban Todah. Today, in its absence, that obligation is expressed through Birkat HaGomel, recited publicly after being saved from danger.
We thank Hashem constantly—in Modim within every Amidah. But HaGomel, like the Todah, is something more focused: a response to extraordinary danger and deliverance, to having passed through something that could have ended very differently.

Two States at Once

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that chametz and matzah represent two simultaneous dimensions of the human condition.

Chametz expresses the human being as he stands in the world—with expansion, capability, and a sense of independence, particularly after having been restrained by hardship. The dough rises; it takes on presence. It reflects a person who has emerged from constraint and now stands with stability and strength.

Matzah, by contrast, expresses the human being as he stands before Hashem—without expansion, without illusion, fully aware that everything he has is given. It is the bread of dependence, clarity, and humility.

The Korban Todah does not ask us to choose between these perspectives. It insists that we hold both at once.

Equal Substance, Balanced Awareness

This is not only an idea—it is built into the halachic structure of the offering itself. Although there are more matzah loaves than chametz loaves, the total amount of flour used for each is equal. The forms differ, but the substance is the same.

Because if one’s sense of independence outweighs one’s awareness of dependence, gratitude becomes arrogance. And if one’s awareness of dependence erases one’s sense of human dignity and strength, then one has not fully grasped the gift that Hashem has given.

True Todah lives in the tension.

I am capable—and I am completely reliant.

I act—and I am carried.

Pesach and What Comes After

This sheds light on the timing of Parshat Tzav just before Pesach. For one week, chametz disappears entirely, and we live only with matzah, immersing ourselves in the foundational truth that everything comes from Hashem.

But Pesach is not meant to eliminate chametz permanently. It is meant to recalibrate it.
When chametz returns, it is meant to return differently—not as ego, but as responsibility; not as independence detached from Hashem, but as independence infused with awareness.

The Korban Todah teaches us how to live that balance.

A Todah for Our Time

It is difficult not to feel how deeply this speaks to the reality we are living through now in Israel.

On the one hand, we are witnessing something extraordinary. Thousands of missiles have been launched toward us—from Iran, from Hezbollah—and the tiny level of destruction, relative to what could have been, is astonishing. Again and again, we experience a sense that we are being protected in ways that are hard to fully explain.

On the other hand, we are not living in a time of complete safety. Missiles do get through. This week in Arad and Dimona there were injuries and significant damage. Recently, in Beit Shemesh, lives were lost. The vulnerability is real, immediate, and painful.

And so we find ourselves holding two realities at once.

We feel strength, resilience, capability—the reality of chametz.
And we feel dependence, fragility, and the need for divine protection—the reality of matzah.

This is not a contradiction. It is the lived experience of Todah.

Samaria youth have seized the Iranian missile that fell in Peduel to be a piece of playground equipment.

Living the Todah

Without a Beit HaMikdash, we do not bring a Korban Todah. But we do respond.

We say Birkat HaGomel when we are saved from danger, just as Chazal established. And in recent weeks, many have taken upon themselves small but meaningful acts of gratitude—saying Mizmor leTodah after a warning siren ends without impact. In our own home as well, this has become a quiet but powerful response: not just relief, but acknowledgment.

Not just exhaling—but recognizing.

Toward Pesach

As we enter Pesach, we step into a world of pure matzah, a week that strips away illusion and reminds us with clarity where everything comes from.

And when chametz returns, we are meant to return with it—differently.

To act, to build, to stand strong in the world, while knowing with complete clarity:

Our strength is real—but it is given to us from Above.
Our independence is real—but it is divinely sustained.

And holding those two truths together—fully, honestly, and at the same time—is itself our Todah.

Have a Happy, Safe, and Kosher Pesach

Published in the Queens Jewish Link, March 26, 2026

What Are We Really Asking For? Korbanot, the Mincha, and the Avodah of Vayikra

Parshat Vayikra opens the grand topic of Korbanot — a world that, while foundational to Torah, can feel distant in practice. Yet this is precisely the avodah for which we daven daily:

רְצֵה ה' אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ בְּעַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל וּבִתְפִלָּתָם, וְהָשֵב אֶת הָעֲבוֹדָה לִדְבִיר בֵּיתֶךָ וְאִשֵּי יִשְׂרָאֵל

Hashem our God. please desire Your people Israel and their prayers; restore the service to the inner chamber of Your House and the offerings of Israel

This demands clarification. When we ask for the return of the avodah, what exactly are we asking to be restored?  Can we really relate to the idea of offering animals and bringing flour offerings as way of serving Hashem?

Chazal frame Korbanot not merely as ritual, but as Avodat Ha’adam — a process that transforms the individual. The Ramban (Vayikra 1:9) explains that the actions performed upon the Korban are meant to awaken in a person the realization that, in strict justice, what is being done to the animal ought to have been done to him. The Korban thus becomes a concrete expression of humility, teshuvah, and renewed closeness to Hashem.

At the same time, the very term Korban — from the root meaning “to draw close” — teaches that the essence of the avodah is not loss, but relationship.

Within this framework, the Mincha, the meal offering, becomes particularly illuminating.

Unlike animal offerings, the Mincha is composed of the most basic elements of a person’s existence: fine flour, oil, and frankincense. These are not dramatic expressions of sacrifice, but the simple components of daily life — sustenance, livelihood, and the sense of blessing that accompanies them. The Mincha reflects not extraordinary moments, but the ordinary fabric of human existence.

This idea is captured in a striking statement of Chazal. On the verse describing the Mincha, Rashi, citing the Gemara in Menachot (104b), notes that it is typically the poor person who brings such an offering. And yet, the Torah describes it as if he has offered his very soul. The simplicity of the offering is not a deficiency; it is precisely what gives it its depth.

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch develops this idea further, explaining that the different forms of the Mincha correspond to different human conditions. Whether one’s life is marked by stability or struggle, simplicity or comfort, each situation can become a vehicle for Avodat Hashem. The offering reflects not only what a person gives, but how he lives.

The Kli Yakar (Vayikra 2:1) observes a broader progression in the parsha itself — from offerings of cattle, to sheep, to birds, and finally to the meal offering. As the material value decreases, the Torah’s language becomes more intimate, culminating in the description of the Mincha in terms of the נפש (soul.) The less one possesses, the more the offering reflects the self, but the more that one gives is valued on High.

A similar idea emerges in the teaching of the Sefas Emes regarding the act of Kemitza, the taking of a small handful from the offering. This handful, though minimal in quantity, represents the essence of the entire Mincha. The avodah is not defined by volume, but by the inner point. When the core is given over, the whole is elevated.

Seen in this light, the avodah of Korbanot is not limited to dramatic acts of sacrifice. It is equally, and perhaps more profoundly, about the sanctification of one’s existence — the ability to bring one’s sustenance, one’s daily life, and one’s very being into a relationship with Hashem.

This, in turn, reframes what is missing in the absence of the Bais HaMikdash. In its place we have Tefillah — “our lips instead of offerings” — but the underlying request remains: the restoration of a world in which closeness to Hashem is expressed not only in thought and speech, but in tangible, lived reality.

When we daven for the rebuilding of the Bais HaMikdash, we are not merely asking for the return of a system of ritual. We are asking for the return of a mode of existence in which even the most basic elements of life — our bread, our livelihood, our daily routine — become part of Avodat Hashem.

Understanding Korbanot in this way transforms our Tefillah. It gives substance to our longing and clarity to our request. It reminds us that what we seek is not only a rebuilt structure, but a restored relationship — one in which everything we have, and everything we are, can be brought closer to Hashem.

And that is a loss we feel every day.

---

I had the privilege of giving an extended shiur on this topic, which can be seen here .

This essay was published in Israel National News on March 20, 2026

Vayakhel Pekudei - When the Siren Sounds, the Nation Gathers

Life in Israel over the past few weeks has developed a strange new rhythm. Usually, there is first a warning — a message on the phone that something may be coming — and then, sometimes minutes later, the siren cuts through the ordinary sounds of the day. Conversations stop mid-sentence, children are quickly gathered, and people step outside and make their way down the street to the public shelter. The door closes behind us, and for a few minutes we sit together waiting for the all-clear. Sometimes it is only a single siren, and a few minutes later everyone returns home. Other times, another siren follows, and then another, and we remain there longer than expected, listening, waiting, and checking our phones to see what may come next.

The first time this new rhythm became real for me was on a recent Shabbat morning. We were standing in shul listening to the reading of Parshat Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek — the embodiment of cruelty without conscience and hatred without restraint. Every year, we hear those words on the Shabbat just before Purim, when we recall how the Jewish people once again faced destruction at the hands of Haman in Persia, another descendant of Amalek, and how that threat was ultimately overturned. The message of that reading is that there are forms of evil that cannot simply be ignored or wished away. They must eventually be confronted and defeated.

And as we stood there thinking about those ancient struggles, the sirens suddenly began to sound. In that moment, the world of the Torah reading and the world outside the synagogue seemed to collide in a way none of us had expected.

A group of neighbors becomes a small community

And since that Shabbat morning, that rhythm has continued. Sirens come and go. People make their way down the street to the shelter, wait together for a few minutes, and then return to their routines. At first, moments like these are unsettling; when the siren sounds, the mind instinctively turns toward danger and uncertainty. But something else has been happening as well. People have begun adjusting. The routine becomes familiar. Neighbors exchange a few quiet words. Someone cracks a joke. Someone checks on an elderly neighbor who needed help getting there. Someone hands a small child a piece of candy to distract them from the noise.

And then, a few minutes later, the moment passes. The all-clear comes. People step back outside and walk home, and life resumes as though nothing unusual had happened.

Except that something important has happened.

In those brief moments underground, something unexpected takes shape. A group of neighbors becomes a small community. People who normally pass one another on the street with a quick nod suddenly find themselves sitting together for a few minutes, sharing a space and sharing a moment. Perhaps the most striking thing about these moments is the mood. Instead of despair, most people are remarkably upbeat. There is a widespread sense that, despite the tension of the moment, Israel is moving toward a stronger, safer future. The progress of the war, whatever its remaining challenges, has given many people the feeling that history itself may be turning in a better direction.

Recently, I noticed something that gave this experience an unexpected resonance. One of the military operations underway has been referred to as “Sha’agat HaAri” — the roar of the lion. The phrase immediately evokes strength and awakening. The Navi Amos once asked, “Aryeh sha’ag mi lo yira?” — when the lion roars, who is not stirred? A lion’s roar does more than frighten; it awakens people and tells them that something powerful is unfolding.

In a strange way, the sirens themselves function like that roar. They interrupt ordinary life and remind us that we are living through a moment that matters — a moment in which courage, patience, and faith are all being called upon.

Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together

And that experience — of strangers suddenly becoming a community — kept reminding me of the opening words of this week’s parsha.

At the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel, the Torah tells us, “Vayakhel Moshe et kol adat Bnei Yisrael.” Moshe gathers the entire community of Israel. Only after the people are gathered does the work of building the Mishkan begin. Coming after the painful rupture of the Golden Calf and the long process of forgiveness that followed, the Torah’s first step is not construction but community. Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together. The rebuilding of the nation begins with a gathering.

The Mishkan will not emerge through miracles alone. It will be built through the contributions of ordinary people — men and women bringing what they have, artisans offering their skills, and an entire nation rediscovering its shared purpose. Perhaps that is why those moments in the shelter feel so familiar. When the siren sounds, everyone arrives carrying something invisible: a bit of fear, a bit of courage, a bit of faith. For those few minutes, we sit together quietly aware that we are part of something larger than our individual worries. In a small way, it is a moment of Vayakhel — a gathering of the community.

Parshat Pekudei continues the story by describing the careful accounting of the Mishkan’s materials. Every contribution is counted. Nothing is dismissed as insignificant. Every piece given by the people becomes part of the structure that will house the Divine Presence. The Torah is teaching something profound: even small contributions matter. Even ordinary acts can become part of something sacred.

In times of uncertainty, this message becomes especially powerful. Checking on a neighbor, helping someone reach the shelter, offering a calm word to someone who is frightened, keeping a sense of humor when tension fills the air — these small acts form the invisible framework that holds a society together.

And this week we also read Parshat HaChodesh, which introduces the mitzvah of the new month as the Jewish people prepare for Pesach. Before the Exodus has even occurred — before redemption has fully revealed itself — the Jewish people receive their first national mitzvah: “HaChodesh hazeh lachem.” Even while still in Egypt, they are told that they will determine the calendar of their future. It is a remarkable message. Hope appears before redemption is visible.

Perhaps that explains something about the mood in Israel right now. People are living in uncertainty, yet they are already speaking about the future. Conversations in shelters often drift toward what lies ahead — a safer Israel, a stronger Jewish people, perhaps even a region beginning to change in ways that once seemed impossible.

Jewish history often unfolds exactly this way. First comes the gathering — Vayakhel — when people draw strength from one another. Then comes the careful accounting — Pekudei — when every small act becomes part of something lasting. And finally comes the declaration of the future — Hachodesh — when even before redemption arrives, Jews begin preparing the calendar of the world that will follow.

In the meantime, when the siren sounds, we step outside and make our way down the street to the shelter once again. We sit together for a few minutes in a small concrete room. Neighbors talk quietly, children fidget, someone tells a story or makes a joke, and then the moment passes. We step back outside and return to our homes — and in ways both large and small, we keep building.

Published in the Queens Jewish Link and Israel National News March 11, 2026

x

From Sirens to Understanding: Sha’agat HaAri and the Light of Purim

I write these words on Motzaei Shabbos after a Shabbos unlike most others.

Throughout the day, sirens sounded again and again across Israel. Families rose from their Shabbos tables, zemiros stopped mid-song, and once more we made the now-familiar walk toward stairwells and bomb shelters. Doors closed behind us. Phones remained silent. Information was scarce. We sensed that something serious was unfolding—likely connected to Iran—but in truth, we did not know what was happening.

Some people were frightened. Others were deeply unsettled. Yet most of us did what Israelis have learned, through long and difficult experience, to do. We gathered our families, walked calmly to safety, and placed ourselves in the hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

As Shabbos observers, we were careful not even to ask those who might have heard the news for updates. We chose, consciously, to live with uncertainty rather than compromise the sanctity of Shabbos. And so we sat together without information, without analysis, without reassurance—sustained only by faith that Hashem watches over His people even when events remain hidden from human understanding.

Earlier that morning, we stood in shul listening to the reading of Parshas Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek—the embodiment of cruelty without conscience, hatred without moral restraint, evil that cannot be negotiated with or redeemed. Those ancient words felt unusually close as sirens interrupted the rhythm of tefillah and sent us toward shelter. We were thinking about the obligation to confront irredeemable evil even as we lived through a moment when evil felt very near.

Only after Shabbos ended did the picture begin to emerge. Reports began circulating of major military action undertaken against one of the most dangerous regimes threatening Israel and the Jewish people. Early indications suggested extraordinary success—achieved at a moment of grave danger and, strikingly, just in time for Purim.

One detail especially caught my attention: the reported name of the operation—Sha’agat HaAri, “the Roar of the Lion.”

The name was so close to the title of the classic halachic work Sha’agas Aryeh that I found myself reaching for the Sefer almost instinctively—not because I expected it to “predict” history, but because Torah is where Jews go to make meaning when events feel too large to hold in the mind. I did not find a ready-made line that “explained” what we were living through. What I did find was the enduring comfort of Torah’s warmth after fear, and the quiet work of seeking language that allows a Jew to stand within uncertainty without being overtaken by it.

That return led me back to Purim.

Purim is the festival of salvation discovered in retrospect. G-d’s Name does not appear explicitly in Megillat Esther. Events look like random, natural, political machinations. The story unfolds through palace intrigue, human decisions, and remarkable turns of fortune. For much of the narrative, the Jewish people live inside uncertainty. Only afterward does a pattern emerge; only afterward do we realize that what looked random was guided, that what looked like vulnerability was the beginning of redemption.

We make our way into shelters without knowing how the story ends—and only later discover that deliverance may already have begun.

Purim, in other words, is not only about being saved. It is about coming to recognize salvation—about learning, sometimes after the fact, that Hashem was there all along.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin describes Purim as the emergence of light, specifically from within concealment—or mitoch ha-hester. Unlike the open miracles of Yetzias Mitzrayim, Purim’s redemption is experienced first as hiddenness, and only later as clarity. First comes the night, then the day.

This Shabbos felt like that night.

We moved to shelters repeatedly without knowing what was happening beyond the walls. We did not have the comfort of explanations. We had only tefillah, Tehillim, and a quiet inner decision: to live inside the uncertainty without letting it break us, to trust that the One Who guards Israel does not sleep.

And then came Motzaei Shabbos—the beginning of “daylight.”

As details began to emerge, the same hours that had been filled with fear began to look different. What had felt like chaos began to appear as a purposeful act of protection. What had felt like helplessness began to appear as the removal of a longstanding threat. Nothing about our experience during Shabbos had changed—only our understanding of it.

That is the Purim pattern.

We live through moments before we understand them. We pray before we know outcomes. We make our way into shelters without knowing how the story ends—and only later discover that deliverance may already have begun.

As we approach Purim—and soon afterward Pesach, the festival of revealed redemption—we pray that the frightening moments of our own time will be seen, clearly and unmistakably, as steps toward security, peace, and a deeper awareness of Hashem’s guiding hand in history.

May we merit not only protection, but clarity; not only survival, but the ability to look back and recognize how darkness itself contained the seeds of light.

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשֹׂן וִיקָר

So may it be for us—leading ever closer to the coming of Mashiach and the complete Geulah, speedily in our days.

From the Bigdei Kehunah to Purim Masks: Seeing Beyond the Surface

This week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh, is almost entirely devoted to clothing.
Not ordinary clothing. The Bigdei Kehunah — the priestly garments — described in painstaking, almost overwhelming detail. Fabrics, colors, threads of gold, precise measurements, engraved stones, woven patterns. Page after page of wardrobe specifications.

Make holy garments for your brother Aharon, for honor and for splendor (Shemot 28:2).
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that Kavod — honor — expresses the essential moral and spiritual content of a person’s character. Tiferet — splendor — is the external beauty that makes that inner character visible and esteemed as it should be. The garments were not mere decoration. They were a visible manifestation of the meaning of the Kehunah itself.

In fact, the garments were not optional. A Kohen who performed the service without them was disqualified. Without the garments, he was just another individual acting out of personal impulse. The sanctuary was not meant to showcase personality. It was meant to embody submission to God’s Torah.

Rav Hirsch emphasizes that without the priestly garments, the individual personality of the Kohen — with all its inevitable weaknesses — would stand exposed. Clothed in the sacred vestments, however, he does not appear as he is, but as he ought to be according to the dictates of God’s Torah. By donning the garments, he becomes conscious of his own inadequacy and of the higher standard he represents. The clothing transforms the man from private individual to representative of a sacred ideal.

Clothing is never just clothing. It expresses identity, shapes perception, and can reveal essence — or obscure it

Clothing, in this sense, dignifies not by concealing weakness but by calling the wearer upward.
Rav Hirsch goes even further. Clothing, he reminds us, began in Gan Eden. God Himself clothed Adam and Chava before sending them into the world. Clothing separates the human being from the beast. It is the first and most conspicuous indication of man’s moral calling. It proclaims that a person is more than instinct, more than impulse, more than flesh.

Clothing, at its best, dignifies.
At its worst, it does the opposite.

Which brings us to Purim. In the Megillah, clothing plays a starring role. Esther dresses carefully when she approaches Achashverosh — first to enter the palace, later to find favor before revealing her plea. Mordechai dons sackcloth in anguish. Haman is forced — against every fiber of his pride — to dress Mordechai in royal garments and lead him through the streets. And at the end, Mordechai emerges:

וּמׇרְדֳּכַי יָצָא מִלִּפְנֵי הַמֶּלֶךְ בִּלְבוּשׁ מַלְכוּת תְּכֵלֶת וָחוּר וַעֲטֶרֶת זָהָב גְּדוֹלָה וְתַכְרִיךְ בּוּץ וְאַרְגָּמָן 

... in royal apparel of turquoise and white, with a large gold crown
and a cloak of fine linen and purple.

The text lingers over the fabrics and colors.

• Clothing signals humiliation.
• Clothing signals power.
• Clothing signals reversal.

On Purim itself, we dress up. We wear costumes. We put on masks. We present ourselves as something other than what we appear to be the rest of the year. Sometimes it is humorous. Sometimes thoughtful. Sometimes profound.

Purim reminds us that reality is layered. The Divine Name does not appear in the Megillah, yet God’s hand is everywhere. Identities shift. Power reverses. The outer garment rarely tells the full story.
And then there is techelet — the blue thread of the tzitzit, discussed in recent weeks in Daf Yomi. The Torah commands us to place a thread of blue upon our garments, “so that you shall see it and remember.” The Sages explain: the blue resembles the sea, the sea resembles the sky, and the sky resembles the Throne of Glory. A single thread of color, woven into cloth, becomes a ladder of consciousness.

Garments can anchor memory.
Clothing can elevate vision.
Fabric can point heavenward.

Taken together, Tetzaveh, Purim, and tzitzit suggest a single idea:  Clothing is never just clothing.

• It expresses identity.
• It shapes perception.
• It can reveal essence — or obscure it.

I learned this lesson personally.
When I first entered the rabbinate, I resisted what I thought of as “rabbinic costume.” I wanted to help people, teach Torah, be authentic. I did not feel higher than anyone else. I told my wife — only half joking — that if I ever started talking about a Homburg hat and long frock, she should shoot me.

But over time I realized something humbling the hard way: it was not about how I felt. It was about what my congregants needed to see. The rabbi does not dress only for himself. He represents Torah. Dignity in dress was not ego — it was responsibility. Clothes do not make the man, but they frame the role he occupies. They signal aspiration. They communicate seriousness.

And yet — here is where we must tread carefully — clothing can also mislead.

In these difficult times — filled with pain, adversity, and far too much animosity between fellow Jews — Purim offers more than celebration. It offers direction.

In our own society, clothing has become a boundary marker. One group sees black hats and long coats and assumes a monolithic worldview. Another sees jeans and short sleeves and assumes spiritual indifference. We reduce individuals to uniforms.

But the Kohen’s garments teach something subtler. The clothing represents an ideal — not the flawless personality of the wearer. The mistake is not in dressing differently. The mistake is in imagining that clothing tells the whole story.

Purim exposes that illusion. The mask hides — but it also reveals. It reminds us that beneath every costume is a human being of complexity, struggle, and potential goodness. Beneath the royal robe may stand a threatened Jew. Beneath the sackcloth may stand a future leader. Beneath the external presentation lies a soul created b’tzelem Elokim.

In these difficult times — filled with pain, adversity, and far too much animosity between fellow Jews — Purim offers more than celebration. It offers direction.

Haman described the Jewish people as “a nation dispersed and separate from one another” (Esther 3:8). Chazal understood that accusation not merely geographically, but spiritually and socially. Fragmented. Suspicious. Divided.

It was only after Esther’s urgent call — “Go, gather all the Jews” (4:16) — that the tide began to turn. First they gathered to fast and pray together. Later they stood together to defend themselves. Unity preceded deliverance. Shared purpose preceded salvation.

And then came the transformation:

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשֹׂן וִיקָר

For the Jews there was light, joy, gladness, and honor. Honor — yikar — the very word that echoes the language of kavod and tiferet in our parsha.

Purim is not merely about masks and merriment. It is about rediscovering what happens when a people once described as scattered and separate chooses to stand together.

If clothing can mislead, let it not divide us.
If garments can symbolize aspiration, let them call us upward together.
If masks remind us that reality runs deeper than appearance, let them teach us to look for the shared soul beneath every external difference.

In these challenging days, may we seize the opportunity Purim represents — to see beyond the surface, to gather rather than fragment, to recognize one another as fellow bearers of Divine image. And may we merit once again to live the verse not as history but as hope: Layehudim hayta orah v’simcha v’sason v’yikar — light, joy, gladness, and honor — not as isolated camps in different costumes, but as one people rejoicing together.

Published in the Queens Jewish Link

Lo Sachmod in a Culture of Pressure

The Ten Commandments occupy a unique and exalted place in the Torah. Much has been written by our sages about why these ten, of all mitzvot, were chosen to be proclaimed at Sinai and engraved on the Tablets. Without entering that broader discussion, it is clear that their selection reflects their foundational role in shaping Jewish belief and moral life.

Some of the commandments are readily understood. Others require deeper reflection. Perhaps the most difficult of all is the final one: Lo Sachmod — “You shall not covet.”

What does this commandment actually demand of us?

What if a thought simply pops into my head: My neighbor has a beautiful home, a car, a cow — or even a wife — and I wish that were mine. Have I already transgressed the prohibition against coveting? I can’t help it! My brain is wired this way. I see something, I like it, I wish it were mine. What fault is it of mine that the thought arose at all? Isn’t that just simple human nature?

This is a classic question, raised by many commentators. The most famous conceptual response is offered by Ibn Ezra, who begins with a critical premise: God does not command the impossible. To explain how Lo Sachmod can realistically be observed, he offers a striking analogy.

What is truly impossible is not desired

When a king and his entourage pass through a distant province, a simple villager may see the noble and beautiful princess riding by in her carriage. He does not fantasize about marrying her, because the idea never even enters the realm of possibility. She exists in an entirely different world. Similarly, no matter how loving and admirable a person’s mother may be, the thought of marrying her is inconceivable. It lies completely outside the borders of possibility.

So too, explains Ibn Ezra, must a person train himself to view what belongs to another. One’s neighbor’s spouse, home, or possessions must be regarded not merely as forbidden, but as fundamentally beyond reach — as removed from possibility as the princess is from the peasant. What is truly impossible is not desired.

Rabbeinu Bachya, in Kad HaKemach, deepens this insight by noting that the first and last commandments form a matched pair of bookends that inform all the others. If one genuinely believes that God alone governs the world and apportions to each person exactly what is meant for them, there is no reason to covet what belongs to another. Faith in Divine providence naturally leads to contentment with one’s own portion.

At first glance, Lo Sachmod might appear to be a lofty spiritual aspiration, similar to controlling anger or restraining greed. In truth, however, it is a binding halachic prohibition with serious real-world consequences.

Is it permissible to pressure someone to sell property they do not want to sell? May one try to obtain a job or position already held by another? Is it acceptable to pressure someone into a shidduch they are not interested in, or to push one side of a family to make financial commitments they are unwilling to make simply to complete a match?

These are not theoretical questions. They arise regularly in business dealings, communal negotiations, and personal relationships. This short essay is not the place to resolve them, but it is important to recognize that such situations may involve genuine halachic concerns that require serious consideration before entering into any difficult negotiation.

The Rambam, in the opening chapter of Hilchot Gezeilah — a telling placement in itself — formulates the rule clearly:

Anyone who desires the house, servant, or property of another, and pressures him repeatedly, or enlists others to apply pressure until he sells, has transgressed the prohibition of Lo Sachmod.

One who merely schemes in his heart how to acquire what belongs to another violates Lo Tisaveh, the prohibition governing inner desire.

Beyond the weekly Torah portion, the ethic of Lo Sachmod sheds light on troubling trends in contemporary Jewish life.

One such issue is the intense material striving that has taken hold in parts of the Orthodox community, particularly in America — a phenomenon I wrote about recently. The pressure to live, spend, and celebrate at levels far beyond one’s means is often fueled by constant comparison: looking at what others have, how they celebrate, and how they spend, rather than appreciating what God has provided. If there were less fixation on what others possess and more focus on what truly matters, much of this destructive pressure would simply disappear.

Demanding Support from the Unwilling

A far more serious problem, in my view, is the growing expectation among segments of the Charedi community to receive enormous resources from fellow Jews who are unwilling to provide them. This includes billions of shekels in stipends, child support, daycare subsidies, and funding for yeshivos, kollels, seminaries, and much more — demanded from taxpayers who themselves bear the burdens of military service, employment, and civic responsibility, and who are expected to support even those who refuse to serve in the army under any circumstances, including — and especially — those who are not learning full time.

There are, of course, many complex dimensions to this crisis that deserve separate and thoughtful discussion. My point here is narrower. For anyone sensitive to the principle of Lo Sachmod — the prohibition against desiring and scheming to obtain what belongs to another against their will — there is something deeply troubling about efforts to force others to give what they do not want to give.

This concern is only heightened when such demands are accompanied by incessant, traffic-snarling demonstrations, violence, name-calling, and other repulsive behavior, including political threats and coercion. Such tactics do not merely alienate fellow Jews; they undermine the moral authority of Torah itself and cause vast Chilul Hashem.

The same issue arises, though to a lesser extent, in fundraising and advocacy efforts that rely on false or exaggerated narratives — that it is impossible to be religious in the army, that religious Zionist yeshivot lack holiness, or that Jews who work for a living are somehow less committed. At the very least, such strategies raise uncomfortable questions about whether the spirit — and perhaps even the letter — of Lo Sachmod is being violated.

May we merit to see peace among Jews, and to foster an atmosphere in which Torah and Torah scholars are admired not through pressure or coercion, but through lives that exemplify integrity, responsibility, kindness, and genuine concern for others. Such an approach would inspire far more goodwill — and voluntary support — than any strong-arm tactic ever could.

Published on February 6, 2026 in the Jewish Press and Queens Jewish Link