Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

If you have ever felt stuck in your personal life, spiritual life, relationships or career; this is for you.

Whenever we feel stuck, the challenge can usually be summed up as a lack of insight. We’re waiting for the “Aha!” moment; for the lightbulb to come on; but in the meanwhile we’re fumbling in the dark, wondering where or if the light switch may be.

And if this is true on a person level, it’s certainly true on a national level. We’re waiting for a break though, a Chiddush, that will bring the all hostages home, that will finally defeat Hamas, end the anti-semtism and somehow unify Klal Yisrael.

To date, no-one has the answer.

At least not yet.

But perhaps it’s possible that we might have all the answers in a few short days time.

The Mishna in Rosh Hashana (א:ב) tells us that Shavuos is more than a day of celebration; it is a day of judgement:

בַּעֲצֶרֶת עַל פֵּרוֹת הָאִילָן – on Shavuos we are judged concerning the fruits of the tree.

For most of us, this statement of Chazal is largely irrelevant. Even for those of us who own fruit trees, it far from our primary source of income.

The Sfas Emes (שבועות תרס”א) explains that aside from the physical trees, we are judged concerning the Torah:

אך התורה נקראת עץ חיים. וכמו שאילן מוציא פירות בכל שנה ושנה כמו כן התורה מתחדשת פירותי' בכל שנה. ולכן בעצרת על פירות האילן היינו התחדשות התורה שנק' עץ חיים. וכן איתא בספרים. ולכן נק' יום הביכורים.

The “Tree” that the Mishna speaks of is the Torah itself, which is called “Eitz Chaim”. Since, just like a tree yields new fruit every year, the Torah also yields new fruit each and every year... To that end, Shavuos is also the Day of Bikurim – the day of first fruit.

This raises the question: What exactly are these new fruits of the Torah?

The Shela HaKadosh (מסכת שבועות, נר מצוה כ״ח) quotes from the great Medieval Kabbalist, Rabbi Meir ibn Gabbai explaining:

These fruits of the Torah are our spiritual needs – the perspectives and enlightenment that our souls need to fly up to Hashem.

On Rosh Hashana, Hashem decides how our physical needs are met, but on Shavuos, He judges us on what kind of Ruchniyus we will be able to achieve and experience. What will we gain out of the Torah that we learn, the mitzvos that we do, and the Tefillos that we say? That’s what is decided on Shavuos.

The Shela HaKadosh continues: The metric by which we are measured is how much we value the Torah we have now.

And to that end, our custom is to spend as much time on Shavuos learning Torah. We're hoping to merit some new perspective on ourselves, the Torah and the world.

Let’s bring this into the world of practical application:

It’s a mind-bending truth that everything on planet earth today has always been here. The metals in the laptop I’m typing on, the plastic of the keys, the glass of the screen; all of them have been somewhere on planet earth since Adam HaRishon.

It’s taken a few thousand years for humanity to work out how to extract and use these materials to make a laptop. Or, put another way, all human growth, development and ingenuity is a series of Chidushim; a series of novel reimagining of the things we already have in front of us.

That which is true of the physical world is certainly true of the Torah. In the places in life that we feel most stuck, most lost and most clueless, there is some chiddush in the Torah that will solve this crisis. The answer is there, hidden somewhere in the layers of Peshat, Remez, Drash and Sod; Hashem waiting for us to uncover it.

Truthfully, we daven for this insight daily in the Bracha we say just before the Shema every morning: וְהָאֵר עֵינֵינוּ בְּתוֹרָתֶךָ – Illuminate our eyes in your Torah. That we should be able to peer deeply into the infinity of Torah and achieve that clarity that will allow us the experience of וְדַבֵּק לִבֵּנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתֶיךָ – that our hearts should cleave to your mitzvos. With the correct insights in Torah, we are able to live and act in a way that brings our hearts, souls and minds into to alignment – וְיַחֵד לְבָבֵנוּ לְאַהֲבָה וּלְיִרְאָה אֶת־שְׁמֶךָ – please unify our hearts to love and fear Your Name.

The result of all this is that וְלֹא נֵבוֹשׁ לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד – and we will never be put to shame. We will live as proud Jews, with clarity and conviction.

For those who yearn to live connected, enlightened lives of clarity and Ruchniyus, Shavuos is the day to demonstrate how much it means to us. That's what's on the table; it's the thing Hashem is offering us this year, just as he did 3337 years ago on Har Sinai: A brand new way of seeing and understanding the world.

Ultimately this is the goal of the day: To merit new fruits from the Tree of Life that will open our eyes, lift up our hearts and illuminate our souls.

The truth is, I was working on another article. But shortly after 11pm, my phone began buzzing as messages, notifications and news from Washington filled the screen.

Two Jews were murdered in cold blood in the name of “Free Palestine.”

What I felt in that moment was a mixture of shock and horror, coupled with a strange numbness, as if we all knew that this could happen. It's that awful feeling that we’ve been here before, over and over and over again. We felt this way in every country we have lived in; from Spain to Portugal, from Poland to Germany, from Morocco to Iran. At some point, despite our economic success and exemplary citizenship, someone decides that we are the problem. This story is the oldest and most painful in our long history.

How are we supposed to look at these headlines? How are we supposed to respond?

No doubt, this will be a moment that galvanizes some families on the fence about Aliyah to make the move. Jewish security organizations will be stepping up their personal and training. Many will be taking legal action against anti-semites and their sponsors; while others will take action in the world of politics and policy.

But what’s the Avoda? What does Hashem want us to think and do right now?

The Lubavitcher Rebbe would often explain that we need to live with the Parsha; that somehow, clarity would come through the Torah we read and learn each Shabbos (אַ איד דאַרף לעבן מיט דער צייט).

And indeed, the Meshech Chochma who left this world in 1926, wrote a letter to me and you in 2025, in Parshas Bechukosai.

“For the Jew who thinks Berlin is Yerushalaim... A great storm will come. It will uproot him from the place he is planted; he will know that he is a stranger, that his true language is Lashon HaKodesh, that all other languages are like a clothes that are stripped off and exchanged. He will know that the place from which he is carved is Jewish wood, and his only comfort is in the words of the prophets who spoke of Mashiach at the end of time. In his meanderings he has forgotten his Torah, its depths and study. But in returning to it he may find some temporary respite... Since the ultimate reason we are hated and despised because we are living in a foreign world. We need to awaken to be ready and prepared to accept our Godly destiny; that which must happen at the end of time, when we are unified throughout the land; when Hashem is One, and His name is One.”

The Storm is coming for our generation as well.

If this is your moment to make Aliyah, I support and encourage that wholeheartedly. But make no mistake, this is not a call to flee. This storm is worldwide; it affects each and every Jew, regardless of where we are. It is not uprooting us from our place, as much as it is uprooting us from our mistaken identities.

The core of the Meshech Chochma’s perspective is that there is no difference between Tzeela Gez, who was murdered in Israel last week on her way to give birth, and Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim who were murdered last night in Washington working for the Israeli Embassy.

Our enemies do not distinguish between Israeli and Jew. They see no difference between solider and civilian. For the anti-semite, there is nothing that changes between religious and secular, right or left.

The centuries of assimilation into foreign cultures and their politics has convinced us that we can divide up the Jewish people. Our enemies remind us that between Jews, there is no “us and them.”

There is some temporary rest to be found in the Beis Medrash, in the words of Torah, in transcendent thoughts. It’s a good place to hide while preparing an evacuation place. But the storm will only pass when we are willing and able to claim our identity as Klal Yisrael; and to see every other Jew as a card carrying member.

That’s the ultimate goal: That the Unity of Hashem, His morals, ethics and values, will be demonstrated in our world through the Unity of the Jewish people, living His Torah.

Rav Shmuel Mohliver, the leader of Chibbat Tzion used to say that the Jewish people will need two Mashiachs – Mashiach ben Yosef and Mashiach ben David. One will take the Jews out of Galus, and the other will take Galus out of the Jews.

This Storm is coming to take Galus out of us.

At its core, the celebration of Lag Ba’omer is a celebration of the hidden, mystical dimension of Torah. But in doing so, there is already a paradox.

Rebbe Nachman writes (שיחות הר”ן א):

The holy Zohar states that ... the vision of God which each man perceives through the gates he makes in his own heart (Zohar I, 103b). The heart is hidden and the gates do not open to another.

And herein lies our problem: Celebration is, by its nature, an externalizing activity, and our practices on Lag Ba’omer are loud and public. But the secrets of the Torah are fundamentally impossible to express outwardly; so why are we doing any of this?

To that end, the Aruch HaShulchan writes that despite the multitudes of explanations about the day, perhaps the real simcha of Lag Ba’omer is that it was the day the Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai left his cave for the second time. It’s the day that he somehow re-entered the world without burning it down, as the Gemara tells us:

They emerged from the cave, and saw people who were plowing and sowing. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai said: These people abandon eternal life of Torah study and engage in temporal life for their own sustenance. The Gemara relates that every place that Rabbi Shimon and his son Rabbi Elazar directed their eyes was immediately burned. A Divine Voice emerged and said to them: Did you emerge from the cave in order to destroy My world? Return to your cave. They again went and sat there for twelve months. A Divine Voice emerged and said to them: Emerge from your cave. They emerged. Everywhere that Rabbi Elazar would strike, Rabbi Shimon would heal.

Somehow, after those additional twelve months, Rabbi Shimon could carry the mystical weight of Torah into the world without judgment or destruction.

But when we speak about this story, we might fail to realize that the story doesn’t begin with Rabbi Shimon fleeing to a cave to avoid persecution. It starts with a seemingly political debate:

The Gemara relates an incident that took place when Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Yosei and Rabbi Shimon were sitting, and Yehuda-ben-Gerim, sat beside them. Rabbi Yehuda opened and said: How pleasant are the actions of this nation, the Romans, as they established marketplaces, established bridges, and established bathhouses. Rabbi Yosi was silent. Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai responded and said: Everything that they established, they established only for their own purposes. They established marketplaces, to place prostitutes in them; bathhouses, to pamper themselves; and bridges, to collect taxes from all who pass over them. Yehuda-ben-Gerim, went and related their statements to his household, and those statements continued to spread until they were heard by the monarchy. They ruled and said: Yehuda, who elevated the Roman regime, shall be elevated and appointed as head of the Sages, the head of the speakers in every place. Yosi, who remained silent, shall be exiled from his home in Judea as punishment, and sent to the city of Tzippori in the Galilee. And Shimon, who denounced the government, shall be killed.

The Maharsha here notes that it’s obvious that all the sages agree to Rabbi Shimon’s point. Indeed, the Talmud in Avoda Zara tells that in the future, Hashem will tell the nations of the world that He knows that all of their advancements were made for personal gain. Rabbi Shimon, however, is the only one willing to say it.

All this is to say, that Rabbi Shimon’s flight to the cave and his plumbing the depths of the secrets of the Torah are framed as an act of political rebellion. Simply put, he is unwilling to drink the kool-aid of Roman rule.

In the world of Rabbi Shimon, the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash and the rise of a foreign culture is anathema to the intent of existence. It’s immoral to see any value in such perversion of purpose, and there cannot be beauty in it.

But, tragically, that is the reality of the world – since the days of Rabbi Shimon and even today. We, the Jewish people, are not the princes of the universe that Hashem intended us to be. We are yet groveling at the feet of some president, political party, or social media algorithm. We still have not retaken our rightful place as the Light-Unto-The-Nations.

To all of this, Rabbi Shimon leads his silent rebellion.

Deep in that cave, he discovered and explained how the even in his circumstance, even in ours, we are still children of Hashem. Even in the failure, in the pain, and in the misery, our world is real, while theirs is fiction.

But to celebrate Lag Ba’Omer is to know that it’s possible to live a life of Geulah even while we’re in exile. It’s to feel the hand of Hashem guiding us through our personal issues as much as He directs History.

The Light of Rabbi Shimon is the perspective that I can walk in this world, while my head and heart are already in the Beis HaMikdash. It’s eyes that can burn the world by seeing its falsehood, but choose to repair it instead.

Lag Ba’Omer is thus the simcha of the few who get “it”. Those who know that this is not the way it’s supposed to be, and who have committed their lives to seeing the world as it could be.

It’s lighting the fire in the darkness, with friends and family and declaring that there’s only a few days left until we can reclaim the Torah, and once again take our place in history as the people Hashem has created us to become.

A short while ago, I was sitting with some Chevra discussing our rapidly changing world. Every day seems to bring something more unbelievable, and the news can barely keep up with major world events, let alone focus and analysis.

For us, in our lives, it almost feels like we’re passengers on this ride. We’re strapped into to our rollercoaster seats, unable to change or control the track ahead. It’s like we have a front row seat to the greatest show in history, but we’re all in the audience.

And if all of that is as true as it seems, why does Hashem want me here? What am I supposed to be doing with life?

It’s a profound question and one that is uniquely apropos to Sefiras HaOmer. And it begins with a misunderstanding:

When creating humanity, the Torah tells us that Hashem placed Adam in Gan Eden לְעׇבְדָהּ וּלְשׇׁמְרָהּ – to work it and to preserve it.

Naturally, we read this Pasuk as an instruction to develop and protect the Garden of Eden. It’s the charge of humanity to make this world into a better place, whilst ensuring that our creativity doesn’t overstep into the realm of destruction.

That’s how we have always read it and that’s why we feel so inadequate. There is very little that I can effect in the vastness of this Garden.

But the Seforno is bothered by the verbiage used here. Surely, if the Pasuk was commanding us regarding the Garden, the words should read לְעׇבְדו וּלְשׇׁמְרו, since גן is a masculine word.

Rather, writes the Seforno, the pasuk is commanding us something radically different:

לעבדה. לעבוד את נשמת חיים כאמרו ויפח באפיו נשמת חיים To develop his living soul, as the Torah tells us: “Hashem breathed into him a living soul.”

The primary task of mankind is not about the world. It’s not concerning the Garden at all. The real Avoda begins with working, developing and refining our unrefined selves. And truthfully, this work never ends. The Garden is simply the stage and setting that Hashem gives us to do the work of fixing ourselves.

In the words of the Vilna Gaon (אבן שלמה פרק א):

כל עבודת ה' תלוי בתיקון המידות...עיקר חיות האדם הוא להתחזק תמיד בשבירת המדות ואם לאו למה לו חיים

The entirety of service of Hashem depends on correcting our character... the primary life force of a person is that they should strengthen themselves to break their negative traits, and not, what is the point of living?

Or in the words of Reb Elimelech of Lizensk (צעטיל קטן אות טז):

האדם לא נברא בעולם רק לשבר את הטבע The only reason we are created in this world is to break the hold of our impulses.

Paradigmatically, the days of Sefiras HaOmer are the days between the barley harvest and the wheat harvest. Or, in language of Chazal, the movement between unrefined animal food to refined human food.

Seeing the deep resonance between the land and its people, Chazal understood that the agricultural works between Pesach and Shavuos is deeply linked to the personal work we are charged with during this time of year. We are to transcend our animalistic tendencies and become people through Tikkun HaMiddos.

Rabbeinu Bechaye writes (שמות יח כא):

Come and see the greatness of character traits. For the great people of the Torah, such as Noach, Avraham, Yaakov, Moshe and others were never praised for their intelligence and wisdom. The Torah never praises their genius. They are always praised in terms of their middos tovos. This teaches that the main thing is not wisdom, but integrity of character.

In essence: It is far more important to be good than to be smart, happy or successful. It might be difficult to know what Hashem wants us to do. But it is certainly not difficult to know who Hashem wants us to be.

All of this is to say that Hashem is not asking us to change the world. He is asking us to change ourselves. To grow a little more each day, to push ourselves a little harder to become the people that represent Him in this world.

With the passing of the great Rabbi Meir Shapiro, the founder of the Daf HaYomi and Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivas Chachmei Lublin, in 1933, the Yeshiva appointed Rabbi Aryeh Tzvi Frumer to lead.

A short while after his appointment, he stood in front of his students and told them that Rav Meir Shapiro had appeared to him in a dream. In the course of their celestial conversation, Rabbi Frumer asked his predecessor how he was received in the heavenly court. “Surely you, who lead the Yeshiva, founded the Daf Yomi and worked tirelessly for the Jewish people, would be lauded for his achievements?”

Rabbi Shapiro replied: “In this place they care less about achievements, and more about Middos. They don't want to know what you did. They want to know who you became.”

Rav Soloveitchik, in his classic essay Kol Dodi Dofeik writes: “No one can deny that from the standpoint of international relations, the establishment of the State of Israel, in a political sense, was an almost supernatural occurrence... Both Russia and the Western countries jointly supported the idea of the establishment of the [Jewish] State. This was perhaps the only proposal where east and west were united. I am inclined to believe that the entire United Nations organization was created specifically for this purpose – in order to carry out the mission which the divine providence had set for it. It seems to me that one cannot point to any other concrete achievement on the part of the U.N.”

It has been seventy-seven years since the establishment of the State of Israel, and the Rav’s inclination about the U.N. still appears to be correct.

But for a moment, I don’t want to reflect on the rise of antisemitism or the worrying and growing hatred of State of Israel. I don’t want to focus even the painful divisions that are still tearing up Jewish unity inside of Israel and throughout the Jewish world. I don’t want to focus on the fires, physical, psychological and spiritual; painful as they all are.

On Yom Ha’atzmaut, Hashem is asking us to see beyond all of that. That’s not to say that none of this is important. Of course, it’s all essential, and they all require immense Avoda.

But the Avoda of today is to know that all of our current challenges are part of the journey; not the destination. Yom Ha’atzmaut is a day to remember that as Jews, we believe that there is a destination.

The Mekubalim explain that everything in the world is made of עולם, שנה, נפש – Space, time and people. As such, there is a goal of Klal Yisrael; in space, in time and within ourselves. The place is clear: Eretz Yisrael. The time is also clear: Yemos HaMashiach.

But what is the destination, the goal of our people? That’s perhaps the most illusive to describe.

For the first three years of my schooling, I attended a public school in Johannesburg. I didn’t love it, and I didn’t fit in. Twice a week, however, the school brought in a Rabbi to teach Hebrew classes to the Jewish students, and I remember wearing my yarmulka proudly in those classes.

I also remember, as those classes ended, that some of the other kids would grab the Yarmulka off of my head, and run across the soccer field teasing me for wearing “that funny hat on my head.” Looking back, I don’t think they were anti-semites. But I longed to be in a place that being Jewish and looking Jewish, wouldn’t make me “the other.”

In forth grade, the opportunity arose for me to move to a Jewish day school. I was simultaneously elated and terrified. Elated that I would be with kids that wouldn’t bully me for being Jewish, but terrified that I didn’t know as much as them. I knew how to read the first paragraph of the Shema, and the first Bracha of the Shmoneh Esrei, but that was the extent of my knowledge of Davening. I spend that summer breaking my teeth over the Siddur, desperately determined that no one would see or discover how unprepared I was for Jewish schooling.

Just before the school year began, a Rabbi took me aside, and painted a picture that has remained with me for the past three decades.

“Rael, right now, you have big dreams of who you could be and become. For the past three years, you’ve wanted to go to a Jewish school, to be with Jewish kids, to learn Torah. But I’m worried about you. Sometimes, a person can stand on a mountain top, looking at the summit of the next mountain over. They dream of climbing to that next peak. But in order to make to the next peak, the climber will need to descend into the valley bellow, and in the valley, he cannot see the mountain peaks at all.”

I wasn’t sure how to understand what he was telling me, so he explained:

“Right now, you’re looking at the peak in the distance. You have big dreams and big hopes. You want to be a successful and knowledgeable Jew. But to get to the next mountain, you’re going to need to climb into the details of learning, and davening and Halacha. It isn’t going to be easy. You might still get bullied, by different kids, in different ways. When you can’t see the mountain you came from, and you can’t see the mountain you’re aiming for, it’s possible to get stuck in the valley. Please promise me that you won’t stop dreaming of the greatness you're imagining now.”

This is not just my story. It’s the story of a people that has been yearning for Geulah; for a world where things make sense. A world where we don't get bullied. But ultimately, a world where we can become Hashem’s Light to Nations.

The personal destination of Klal Yisrael is, as Hashem tells us: וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ – You will be to Me a kingdom of Kohanim; and a transcendent nation.

On this, the Seforno writes that the purpose of our people is:

להבין ולהורות לכל המין האנושי לקרוא כלם בשם ה', ולעבדו שכם אחד,... בלתי נפסדים, אבל תהיו קיימים לעד באיש, כמו שיהיה הענין לעתיד לבא

To teach and instruct all of mankind to call out in the name of God and for all to serve him together... never to disappear from the stage of history. You will continue to exist forever.

In 1948, we left the mountain peak of dreams, in the hopes of making it a reality.

In these seventy-seven years, we have been traveling through the valley. Somedays it feels like we haven’t had a glimpse of that next mountain top in years. Sometimes it feels like the dreams were little more than illusions.

But Yom Ha’atzmaut is a day to remember that there was one moment in our recent past, when Hashem reached out from behind the veil of history and told us that He would help us get from one side to the other. He threaded His Will through the nations of the world, and empowered us to take our first steps toward the great mountain in the distance.

Today He reminds us: Don’t stop climbing, don’t stop dreaming, don’t stop yearning. The next summit is closer than ever before.

For as long as I can remember, music has been a big part of my life, and a big part of my day. And judging by the questions that I get asked during Sefira, I think it’s safe to assume that we are all listening to far more music than ever before.

At any given moment, many of us will have music playing in the background; while working, or learning. Not to mention the multiple playlists we’ve set up for working out, for carpools, roadtrips and parties.

Is all of this music forbidden? Is acappella allowed?

Broadly speaking, there are two schools of thought as to why we don’t listen to music during these times of the year:

1. Rav Moshe Feinstein: The Rambam holds that all music was categorically forbidden at all times since the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash. Practically, many of the other Rishonim limit this restriction to hearing musical instruments outside of a Seudas Mitzvah, and/or acappella singing at parties. However, during the times of the year when we focus on national mourning, it is appropriate to refrain from all music. (Based on this, Rav Moshe allowed listening to recordings of acappella music on the radio during Sefira.)

2. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach: The Magen Avraham prohibits festive dancing (ריקודים ומחולות) during Sefira, in order to limit our expressions of joy during these sad times. Thus any music that is designed to bring one to dance, should be prohibited. (Rav Shlomo Zalman contends, however, that quiet slow music was never prohibited, since there was never a problem with music per se, only the dancing that it encouraged. He does not differentiate between recordings and live music, or instruments vs acappella.)

Ironically however, the vast majority of Sefira music questions are not about listening to music at all.

As a result of the near ubiquitousness of music, we seldom actually listen to music. (When was the last time that you sat down listen to a song with no other activity happening simultaneously?) Culturally speaking, the act of listening to music is no longer an activity we do, and thus it no longer engenders the same emotions and experience as it once did.

In recent years, a number of Poskim have taken this gradual shift into account when discussing the Halachos of Sefira. While everyone agrees that live concerts are still prohibited, listening to certain types of music while driving, exercising and working might well be permissible.

Rav Melamed (פניני הלכה) explains: “nowadays, everyone listens to music on electronic devices regularly, and since it has become so routine, the festiveness and joy associated with listening to music has disappeared.”

Rav Eliyahu Shlesinger (שו”ת שואלין ודורשין) adds: “Even though there we do not display happiness during these times of year, there is still a mitzvah to serve Hashem with joy, and for many people, listening to music is important to maintaining mental health.”

To be clear, there are many Poskim who disagree with this analysis, and these leniencies are not all widely accepted. Nevertheless, for the past few years, I have personally erred on the side of entertaining leniences for the sake of mental health and physical well-being.

The year, however, I’ve been rethinking my Sefira-music orientation, and perhaps some of these thoughts might resonate with you as well.

1. The reason for our mourning during Sefiras HaOmer is the death of the students of Rebbe Akiva, who “did not treat each other with respect.”

Historically, we have marked this mourning by decreasing our expressions of joy. Within this rubric, a public concert is inappropriate, and privately listening to music is benign. But our music listening habits, whilst not violating any public ban on joyousness, might well be perpetuating the same apathy and disdain that we are trying to mourn.

The moment we pop in our AirPods, the world around us goes silent, and we are (often consciously) signaling that we are not to be bothered.

This makes every conversation starter a little more strained.

Perhaps our noise-cancelling musical retreat does afford us the ability to be present with our work. But it comes at the cost of making us far less present with each other.

2. “When the students of Rebbe Akiva died, the world went silent.”

Chazal (יבמות סב ב) describe the aftermath of this plague with the terrifying phrase – וְהָיָה הָעוֹלָם שָׁמֵם – the world was desolate.

We are still mourning during the Omer because that desolation has not yet been repaired. Yet somehow, we have filled it with a lot of noise. So much so, that today, many people find any silence deeply unsettling.

We have noise machines to help us sleep and music in elevators to avoid the awkwardness.

Part of the Avoda of Sefiras HaOmer is to experience the discomfort of a world that feels a little too empty, so that we can choose to refill it with sounds of meaning.

3. The World of Music has Turned Against Us

Music has a unique power to unite people, and that power has been used and abused to incite Jew-hatred.

Just this week, 125,000 concert goers at Coachella were lead into chanting curses at the State of Israel. They roared, cheered and celebrated their unanimous animosity of the singular Jewish state.

I do not know if everyone at that concert arrived with antisemitism burning in their hearts, perhaps they were seduced by the simplistic moral high-ground on offer. But one thing is clear: Everyone left with a little less love for the Jewish people.

Rebbe Nachman (ליקוטי מוהר”ן ג) writes: הנה מי ששומע נגינה ממנגן רשע, קשה לו לעבודת הבורא – When someone listens to the music of a musician who is wicked, it is detrimental to his serving the Creator.

Songs have a powerful effect on us. Their emotions penetrate our hearts, even when as our minds work to protect our thoughts and opinions. Perhaps Sefira gives us a chance to audit the music we listen to?

None of this is Psak Halacha, but on a personal level, I’m trying to be a little more conscious about the types of music I’m listening to – during Sefira and beyond. I’m also trying to make sure that my music, audio books, shiurim and podcasts don’t come at the expense of my personal relationships.

With the hope that if we feel the discomfort that comes with silence, perhaps we can all work together to fill the world with the right kind of music.

In his book “Out of the Depths,” Chief Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau tells the following story:

In 1978, when I was forty-one years old, leaders of this seaside Israeli town (Netanya) asked me to respond to the call for candidates in the election for chief rabbi of the city. I was quite young for such a heavy responsibility; still people said, my chances of winning were good. I attended a meeting with then-mayor Reuben Kliegler, city administrators, and local Labor party leaders. I told the mayor that if I were elected I would be following in the footsteps of the dynasty of rabbis from which I descended.

I met with the mayor and his staff for four hours. The whole time, a man with white curly hair sat with us, but he did not open his mouth. Only when I rose to shake hands and take my leave did he address me and others: Friends, honored rabbi, before we disperse, please allow me to say my piece. In a minute you will understand why I held my tongue this whole time. In these hours sitting before Rabbi Lau, I have been reliving the eleventh of April 1945. I was deported from my hometown of Zarka, Poland, to the infamous camp of Buchenwald. On April 11, American airplanes circled in the skies above the camp. The prisoners, myself among them, burst out of the barracks. Spontaneously, we ran toward the gate, anticipating our liberation after six years of hell. As we ran, a hail of lead shot past us. We had no idea who was shooting, from where, why, or what was happening. We only knew that our lives were in danger.

Among those running toward the gate was a little boy. Later, I learned that his name was Lulek, and that he was just under eight years old. I realized that any child at Buchenwald had to be Jewish. I jumped on top of him and threw him to the ground, and lay over him to protect him from the bullets. And today I see him before me, alive and well. Rabbi Lau is that very same Lulek, the boy from Buchenwald.

Now I declare this to all of you. I David Anilevitch, was saved from that horror, fought in the Palmach, and today serve as deputy mayor of an Israeli city. If I have the merit of seeing this child, whom I protected with my body, become my spiritual leader, then I say to you [and here he pounded on the table so the water glasses shook] that there is a God…

For the next nine years, I served as chief rabbi of Netanya.

Of all the cherished moment in the life of a Jewish family, few compare to the moment our children will stand up proudly and sing “Ma Nishtana” – the “four questions”. Why are we eating Matzah? Why are we eating Maror? We are we all leaning? Why are we dipping?

If your family is anything like mine, by the time your kids sit down again, beaming from the praise from parents and grandparents, no one is looking for answers.

It all seems like such a farce. The object of the night is to educate our children about the story of the exodus. But they know it already, and they’re waiting to sing V’hi She’amda, Dayeinu and Paroah in Pajamas.

Have we all missed the point? Not quite.

The truth is that the questions at the Seder are not supposed to be answered, because the questions are not questions, they are invitations.

No one at the Seder is actually bothered by why we’re dipping. But they are bothered by two thousand years of Jewish exile.

No one is struggling to sleep at night because we all lean while drinking wine and eating matzah. We’re losing sleep over the 552 days that our enemies are still holding our brothers and sisters captive in Gaza.

It’s not a night of textual study or ancient history. The questions we have are not about details of rituals, but the meaning of our lives and the purpose of being Jewish in a world that so often hates us.

As our kids grow older, they too are trying to understand their place in this story. If we’re being honest, by the end of the evening, none of us will be any no closer to answering the big questions.

But one thing is certain, when another Jewish child gets up and sings Ma Nishtana, we can bang on the table and scream “There is a God.”

That’s how we finish the night: אחד אני יודע – I know One. One is Hashem. Somehow, for a few moments, all the biggest and most challenging questions of our lives and history disappear. All the “why’s” and “hows” are less relevant, because by the end of the story, Hashem will slaughter the Angel of Death, and we’re still going to be there. Maybe then we’ll have the time and mind-space for the answers.

For right now, this moment, the experience of Seder night is our opportunity to bang on the table and remind ourselves that there is a God.

In the mid 1800's, in the height of the California Gold Rush, a young father bid his family in New York goodbye, to seek his fortune out west.

Months went by and he found nothing but dirt. Finally, fed up, he decided to come home. He calls the train station and asks when the next train will be. “It's a leaving in 4 weeks”, they tell him “And it'll be months after that before the next one arrives.”

“How much for a ticket?”, he asks. When he hears the reply, he's torn. It's a lot a money. Money that he hasn't made yet. “I'll call you back” he says.

A week before the train leaves, he calls again. The price has gone up. “Should we book it for you?” “No,” he responds.

A day before the train leaves, he calls again. This time he is told: “There are no more tickets to buy. But if you come to the station tomorrow, you may yet be able to get a seat.”

The next day, he wakes up early, packs his bags and leave for station. Everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Weather, traffic, you name it.

The train is leaving at 12 noon. He gets to the station at 11:55am. Rushing through the throngs of people, he looks for the right platform. It's 11:58. He runs up the stairs, as he hears the train's whistle. It's 12 noon and the train is pulling out of station. Against his best judgement, he begins to run after the train. The conductor looks out of the window, and takes pity on him and he opens a door.

He calls out to the young man “Drop you bags and jump!” The whistle blows again. “Drop you baggage and jump!”

...

The story of Pesach begins on Shabbos Hagadol with one simple question: Are we willing to drop the baggage and jump.

For our ancestors in Egypt, this meant taking an Egyptian deity, tying it to their bedposts, and preparing to slaughter it. The were asked to reject the gods of their host cultures – which they had grown to believe in.In each generation, the baggage is a little different, as is the jump, but it always follows the same basic rules, with the same intensity and lack of clarity.

Ultimately, the challenge crystallizes to one excruciating split second decision; because when we drop the baggage, we still have no idea how the jump will go. We don’t know how we will land, we don’t know one day we will look back and relish this moment, or perhaps resent it.

Despite the regular complaints and failures of Klal Yisrael in the Midbar, Hashem still loved us for the moment that we dropped our baggage and jumped. The Navi describes love: זָכַרְתִּי לָךְ חֶסֶד נְעוּרַיִךְ אַהֲבַת כְּלוּלֹתָיִךְ לֶכְתֵּךְ אַחֲרַי בַּמִּדְבָּר בְּאֶרֶץ לֹא זְרוּעָה – I remember the kindness of your youth, your love as a bride – How you followed Me in the desert, in a land not sown.

Every year, in the days leading up to Pesach, that Avoda returns to us. We are each invited and instructed to take stock of the baggage we’re holding onto, to seek out the Chametz in our lives and souls, and destroy it.

Rav Shlomo Twerski (מלכות שלמה שבת הגדול) explains that before we can decide what we want to become, we need to know what we don’t want to be. As we grow as people, our aspirations should naturally change as well. But knowing what we reject needs to be iron clad. Indeed, the beginning of all personal development is a conviction that “I don’t want to be this way any longer.”

The Torah codifies this commitment with the prohibition of returning to Egypt: לֹא תֹסִפוּן לָשׁוּב בַּדֶּרֶךְ הַזֶּה עוֹד – You must not go back that way again.

On this Pasuk, the Izbitzer (ליקוטי מי השלוח, ספר דברים, שופטים ב׳) explained that the way of Egypt is not simply a road or location, but a way of life:

The impurity of Egypt was in that it constrained and limited a person by surrounding them with everything they could want and need. And when a person is conditioned to certain luxuries and pleasures they are unwilling to give them up, even for the chance to become greater.

To the outsider, our cleaning, kashering and destroying of Chametz must seem insane. For a little more than a week, we act like crazy people; obsessing over every crumb, ensuring that no morsel of leaven survives our scrutiny.

But perhaps thats the whole point. It’s an annual proof to ourselves that we can, in fact, completely eradicate the baggage that’s holding us back. We can walk away from the luxuries of our vices and bad habits. We can abandon our negativity and cynicism, and make the jump to start becoming the people we want to be.

Preparing for Pesach gives us the confidence to know that if we we can live without bread, there is nothing that can hold us back from taking the next big leap in life.

Before you get nervous, this is not a Kashrus alert. Baruch Hashem we are privileged to live in a community with well stocked and well supervised Kosher establishments.

But walking through the Pesach aisles of our local stores, there are products that my kids have noticed as particularly strange: “Salt water for the Seder”, “Ten Pre-wrapped pieces of Chametz for Bedikas Chametz”, or a “Pre-roasted Zeroa for the Seder Plate.”

I’m not going to talk about the prices of these items, but needless to say, I think we’ll be making our own salt water.

Please note, I’m not passing judgement on the companies making these products, or the stores for selling them.

My wife is a therapist, specializing in the mental health of seniors, their spouses and their aides. For the woman suffering with Parkinson’s disease, the ability to purchase “Ten Pre-wrapped pieces of Chametz for Bedikas Chametz” is an immense blessing. It allows her to ensure that she and her husband can fulfill the mitzvah with diligence as well as dignity.

This is an extreme example. But there are many others that are far more palatable – and often far more costly. Top of the list is the ever growing Pesach Hotel industry.

This is a delicate conversation, and I am not looking to make people upset here. On the one hand, we applaud the innovations that allow for large families to unite for Yom Tov, and the ability for people to get a vacation while still observing Torah and mitzvos.

On the other, we are falling into the trap of outsourcing our Yiddishkeit... And that is far more dangerous than we’d care to admit.

But knowing where we should draw the line is complicated. So let's try to ground the discussion in the lessons of the Torah:

Chazal (Yoma 72a) tell us:

אָמַר רַבִּי חָמָא בְּרַבִּי חֲנִינָא מַאי דִּכְתִיב עֲצֵי שִׁטִּים עוֹמְדִים ... שֶׁמָּא תֹּאמַר אָבַד סִבְרָן וּבָטֵל סִכּוּיָין תַּלְמוּד לוֹמַר עוֹמְדִים שֶׁעוֹמְדִין לְעוֹלָם וּלְעוֹלָמִים

Rabbi Chama, son of Rabbi Chanina, said: What is the meaning of that which is written: “And you shall make the boards for the Mishkan of acacia wood, standing”?... “Standing” is written to hint at the following: You might think that since the Mishkan is no longer in use, the boards would rot and decay. Therefore, the verse states “standing” to indicate that they will last forever and ever.

The Seforno (ר׳ פר׳ פקודי) adds:

Not only did the Mishkan last forever, none of the utensils used in the Mishkan ever fell into the hands of our enemies.

But then the Seforno pivots: > This is the opposite of what happened to the “permanent” Temple, בית עולמים, built by Shlomo HaMelech.

He continues to explains that Shlomo's Beis HaMikdash needed regular repair, and that it was eventually, and tragically destroyed.

What could account for this discrepancy? The Seforno's answer here is biting: The Mishkan was built by Jewish hands. The Beis HaMikdash was outsourced to foreign laborers from Tzidon.

His point is clear: If you want to create something that will stand the test of time, you need to do it yourself. We dare not outsource the things that are most important in our lives: Torah, mitzvos and relationships.

But the comments of the Seforno require explanation on two counts. Firstly, if the tragedy of the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash could've been avoided by communal engagement, then why did Shlomo HaMelech – the wises of all men – not insist on it? Secondly, and perhaps more painfully, what difference does this make for us? The Beis HaMikdash is destroyed, and the Mishkan is hidden. Either way, we have no access to them?!

To this the Alshich HaKadosh notes that there were fundamentally different emotions driving the building of the Mishkan and Mikdash.

The Mishkan was build by Jewish hands because it was a project borne out of Love of Hashem, Love of Torah and Love of the Jewish people. They wanted to build it. They wanted to get their hands dirty.

By contrast, the purpose of the Beis Mikdash was to inspire a sense of awe and fear. Walking into the Mikdash was entering the Palace of the King. Royalty. Sovereignty. Majesty. It could not simply be cobbled together by volunteers; even if they wanted to. It needed to be perfect – so the greatest artists and architects were hired. And that meant foreign labor.

Tragically, and ironically, the attempt to create a fixed, permanent, awe-inspiring edifice resulted in the disenfranchising of the very people it was meant to inspire.

This is the tension at the heart of everything we do in life: marriage, raising children, building a business and cultivating a community. Do we do it ourselves or do we outsource to professionals?

Of course, we all know that there must be a balance. We cannot do everything ourselves, that's a recipe for burnout. But by handing over every task, we make ourselves obsolete.

Amazingly, Chazal pondered and resolved this centuries ago by understanding that everything we do creates a change in us and a change in the world. But that the primary orientation of a Jew is first to focus on the change in ourselves.

Let's understand this in context of Pesach.

Our Sages teach us that a מצות הגוף – a mitzvah on ourselves – cannot be outsourced. No one can eat matzah for you. No one can drink the four cups on your behalf. Just like no one can exercise for you, or loose weight on your behalf.

But then there are mitzvos that create an effect: You need a chametz-free home. You need a seder prepared. These can be outsourced. But they should not be, since מצוה בו יותר מבשלוחו – there is a greater mitzvah to do it ourselves. Yes, of course, a professional might be able to do it better. But the goal is changing ourselves far more than having a “perfect seder” (whatever that might mean to your mother-in-law...)

And what if we really, truly, have no idea how to do a particular mitzvah? Chazal do not leave us in the dark. They instructed halachik mechanisms, for example: appointing a Shaliach (an agent) and שומע כעונה (listening to a text rather than saying it).

But the point is clear: We should always err on the side of doing it ourselves. An outsourced Yiddishkeit does not last, even if it is perfect.

The Eretz Tzvi notes that while neither Mikdash not Mishkan are available to us today, the truth that the Mishkan still stands somewhere is deeply meaningful. In the world of Galus, neither love nor fear are readily accessible. But the Mishkan of love still exists – it's hidden, but it's there. It is the only tool we have to build a relationship with Hashem if only we would uncover it.

This understanding is essential in imbuing our children with a commitment to Torah and Mitzvos. By getting them involved in Pesach we ensure that they know that Yiddishkeit is about passion and enjoyment – not perfection and fear. And that makes it last.

But it's not only about our kids and grandkids. Somehow, we have developed this false narrative that kids need to do mitzvos with love while we just need to get it done – to be “Yotzei”.

What happens to good parents on Seder night when the kids fall asleep? Does the seder loose steam, and fizzle out? Or do we, as adults, engage deeper and more meaningfully?

The next two weeks are about getting rid of the Chametz in our hearts, by getting rid of the Chametz in our homes. It's about preparing to leave the Mitzraim of our lives, by preparing for Seder night.

Ultimately, the goal of all of Yiddishkeit is to pour our passion, excitement and engagement into changing ourselves, and deepening our connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

Hashem should help us to live lives of love and engagement; that whatever we build should last forever.

For the past year and a half, there is one lesson we have been learning over and over again. It’s a lesson that we are still resistant to accept; one that we find inherently and fundamentally challenging.

Everything we thought to be impossible is actually quite possible. And everything we thought to be certain is, in fact, subject to reexamination.

Every news headline has prompted us to question our basic assumptions about politics, war and international diplomacy. Not a week goes without reality defying our expectations, and in the aftermath, we are left to post-rationalize the events of our own lives.

Not a single one of us could’ve predicted the current state of the Jewish people from the vantage of just two years ago.

And yet, despite our obviously limited capacities of prediction, we still hold firmly to our own notions of “possible” and “impossible.”

This is true nationally and politically as well as personally. We find ourselves committed to some arbitrary set of ideas, ideals and ideologies; forcing ourselves to cover over our questions with bandaid after bandaid.

All of is might make us feel inadequate and misguided. But our inability to see how the present develops into the future is not as much a bug as it is a feature.

We cannot predict the future with any accuracy, because our future is bigger than us. The future of Klal Yisrael is that our current reality is and will transform into a state of redemption. And that’s impossible for us to see as individuals. There isn’t a single Jew alive who can plot the map explaining how we get from here to there; much like there was no Jew in Mitzraim who could’ve anticipated the ten plagues.

In retrospect, it all adds up; but Geulah is greater than the sum of its parts. Scientists and philosophers refer to this phenomenon as the principle of Emergence. One molecule of water is incapable of making a wave, but when many more drops of water collect together, they transcend their individual definitions and limitations. The same is true of a swarm of bees, or the beauty we observe in the unique fractal development of a snow flake. Some researchers argue that the presence of human intelligence itself is an emergent property arising from the coalescence of cells in our brains and bodies.

Realizing this, there is a deep and very practical application for us to consider, even as we cannot yet perceive the road to Geulah ourselves. The more that we connect to each other, to Hashem and to His Torah, the more we will become as individuals.

With this in mind, we can understand Rashi’s comment at the beginning of our Parsha:

ויקהל משה. וְהוּא לְשׁוֹן הִפְעִיל, שֶׁאֵינוֹ אוֹסֵף אֲנָשִׁים בְּיָּדַיִם, אֶלָּא הֵן נֶאֱסָפִין עַל פִּי דִּבּוּרוֹ

The word ויקהל is used in the verbal form that expresses the idea of causing a thing to be done, because one does not actually assemble people with one’s hands, but they are assembled through his command.

The gathering together was inspired by Moshe, but it was a naturally occurring event; almost beyond the will of any single Jew, they all “were gathered.” The fictitious divisions between Jews evaporated, and somehow they were drawn together.

Rebbe Nachman (תנינא פ״ב:ג׳) explains how Moshe managed to bring the nation together:

שֶׁמֹּשֶׁה קָשַׁר אֶת עַצְמוֹ אֲפִלּוּ לַפָּחוּת שֶׁבְּיִשְׁרָאֵל וּמָסַר נַפְשׁוֹ עֲלֵיהֶם, כְּמוֹ שֶׁכָּתוּב (שמות ל״ב:ל״ב): וְאִם אַיִן מְחֵנִי נָא. וְזֶה פֵּרוּשׁ (שמות ל״ה:א׳): וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה וְכוּ' – שֶׁמֹּשֶׁה הָיָה מְאַסֵּף וּמְיַחֵד וּמְקַשֵּׁר אֶת עַצְמוֹ עִם כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל, אֲפִלּוּ עִם הַפָּחוּת שֶׁבַּפְּחוּתִים.

Moshe bound himself with even the least Jew, and gave his life for them, as it is written, “But if not, please blot me out!” (Exodus 32:32). This is also the meaning of: “And Moshe assembled…” (Exodus 35:1)—that Moshe would gather, unite and bind himself with all of Israel, even with the least of the least.

Moshe had just demonstrated his total self sacrifice for each and every member of Klal Yisrael. When he said “Chevra, I want to talk to you,” they came running. Why did Moshe need everyone together? Because these are the survivors of the Egel HaZahav. These are the ones who saw their friends and neighbors bow to a golden calf and chase Hashem from the midst of Klal Yisrael. The Alshich HaKadosh explains: It would be up to these Jews to bring Hashem’s presence back into their midst. The Shechina of Hashem is an emergent property of the unity of the Jewish people.

The Sfas Emes (ויקהל תרל”ו) writes that when Moshe saw the fractured and frazzled Jewish nation gathered together, he felt a deep sense of Nachas, exclaiming: אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָם – These are the things that Hashem is commanding you to do. These displays of unity, these moments of connection.

A year and a half into this war, with our brave Chayalim returning to fighting in Gaza, we are still plagued by machlokes and disunity.

In many ways, the war had accentuated the divide between Charedim and Dati’im. Right and Left are still arguing vehemently about control over State institutions. The families of the Hostages are constantly pitted against army intelligence. We have no answers, and no clarity appears to be forthcoming.

But Geulah is coming. Somehow from within all this darkness and turmoil, redemption is forming. Our Avoda, and indeed the Avoda of Klal Yisrael is to not fall apart. Jewish unity in our purpose and our presence can and should transcend even the most extreme machlokes.

After all, our long history has proven that any singular approach is most likely wrong. But in gathering together, Hashem’s Presence can yet emerge.

May we merit to see it soon.