Rabbi Joey Haber

Claim Your Seat

There are moments in life when it seems like the world is having the time of its life. Cities come alive with music and celebration and social media channels beam with images of carefree college students, parties, and pleasure. And deep down, a quiet voice may whisper, “Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I want a taste.”

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 93a) recounts the story of Chananya, Mishael, and Azaryah. In the days of Nevuchadnezzar, everyone was were commanded to bow down to an idol. While others succumbed, Chananya, Mishael, and Azaryah refused. In response, the king threw them into a blazing furnace. And miraculously, they walked out alive.

The nations of the world, witnesses to this open miracle, turned to the other Jews—those who had bowed—and asked, almost in disbelief, “You have a G-d who can save like that, and you still bowed?”

What exactly did these nations mean by their statement?

Rav Uren Reich shared a moving parable, originally told by the Chofetz Chaim:

A simple man living in a quiet village received word that his wealthy uncle was inviting him to the city, sending along a first-class train ticket. The man boarded, peeked into the first-class cabin, saw the luxury—the reclining seats, the fine food, the hospitality—and stepped back. I’m not worthy of this, he thought. So he moved to second class. Still uncomfortable, he eventually settled all the way in the back, on a hard wooden bench.

When the conductor came by, he saw the man trembling under the bench, trying to hide. “Where’s your ticket?” the conductor asked. Sheepishly, the man handed it over. The conductor stared. “You’re sitting here, in the back, under a bench, with a first-class ticket?”

We laugh at the absurdity. But spiritually, this can be the way we lead our lives.

The world’s parties and its pleasures may be the best it has. That’s their first class. But as Jews, we were given something much different, much greater. We were given Torah, Shabbos, and a relationship with Hashem. And with a Torah life, we are supplied with a moral compass, a sense of holiness, a life of meaning and responsibility, of connection and purpose.

The rest of the world may not have been invited to the first-class cabin. But we were. So why would we wish to crouch under a bench, ashamed of our identity, chasing shadows, envying noise? When the world seems to be dancing, remember: that celebration is born of emptiness. Ours is born of eternity.

Don’t look longingly at what others have in the back of the train. They were never handed a ticket what you were.

So take your ticket and stand tall. Walk proudly into the life Hashem designed for you, knowing that you were never meant to settle.

You were meant for first-class.

Mr. Charlie Harary

For You

There’s a story I heard years ago. It’s one of those stories that stays with you, quietly shaping how you see the world.

It’s about a father and his three sons.

This father was a man of prominence: a successful businessman and a respected leader in the community. When his youngest son got engaged, he decided to make the wedding a grand event. It would be a celebration that would reflect his legacy, his success, and his family’s dignity.

He called upon his eldest son, a man much like himself: polished, successful, known and admired in the community. “The wedding is coming up, and I want you there. But not just as a guest. You’re my son and you represent me. So whatever you need—clothing, accessories, anything at all—I’ll pay for it. Dress your family with dignity. This is my simcha, and you’re a reflection of me.” The eldest son readily agreed.

Then the father called his second son, but it was a very different story. This son had struggled throughout life, and didn’t enjoy money or success. With his wife and children, he lived simply, without much polish or presentation. But the father gave him the same offer: “Whatever you need, it's on me.”

Finally, the day of wedding arrived. Outside the hall, two cars pulled up.

From the first emerged the oldest son and his family. They were picture perfect. Custom suits, designer dresses, coordinated outfits, hair and makeup flawless. Heads turned, as people whispered in admiration.

Then the second car pulled up. The middle brother stepped out with his family. But the contrast was striking. Clothes were ill-fitting, mismatched, hair undone, with the children looking unprepared, even disheveled.

The wedding went on, and the next day the oldest son called his father. “Abba,” he said, “where should I send the receipts? You told me to spare no expense for your honor, and we spent quite a bit.”

The father replied, “I’m not paying for it.” The son was shocked. “But you told me that anything I bought for your honor, you’d cover!”

“Yes,” said the father. “For my honor. But let me ask you something. Don’t you know your brother? Did it not occur to you how he’d show up? If you truly cared about my honor, wouldn’t you have taken him shopping? Wouldn’t you have ensured that the whole family, not just yours, walked into that hall with dignity? You bought beautiful clothing, but it was for your own honor, not mine. And I’m not covering that bill.”

That story changed the way I understood a teaching of Chazal. “One who prays for another is answered first” (Bava Kama 92a).

It always puzzled me. If I’m the one going through something—if I know the depth of my own pain, my own struggle—shouldn’t I be the best person to pray for myself? Why would praying for someone else open the gates of Heaven for me?

But this story reveals a deeper truth.

We are not in this world for our honor. We are here for Hashem’s honor. From the day we left Mitzrayim, from the moment we received the Torah, our mission has been singular: to bring glory to Hashem.

Sometimes, Hashem gives us challenges not just to test us, but to sensitize us and help us feel the pain of others. When you’ve gone through heartache, you notice it in someone else’s eyes. When you’ve waited long for something, you learn how to daven for someone else who is waiting too. And that’s the turning point. When your pain doesn’t make you self-absorbed, but makes you a servant of the King.

If all I want is for my pain to go away, then it’s still about my honor. But if my first instinct is to turn to Hashem and say, “Please help them; they’re Your child too,” then I’ve shifted from self to service. I’ve stopped looking in the mirror and started looking through the lens of Kavod Shamayim (the honor of Hashem).

A father doesn’t take pride in the success of just one child. He takes pride when all of his children walk with dignity.

So maybe the reason we’re answered first when we pray for others is because Hashem looks down and says, “You finally get it. You care about My honor. You want all My children to shine. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

May we merit to use our challenges not as walls that isolate us, but as windows into the hearts of others. And may we always remember that the greatest thing we can do with our pain is to transform it into prayer—for someone else.

Because in that moment, we’re not just seeking relief. We’re bringing honor to the King.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

Change Your Perspective

I want to offer a challenge to you.

Imagine you find yourself amidst a significant challenge in your life. Or, in reality, you might be going through one right now. Now, picture yourself sitting back in your chair or actually do so. Feel for a moment relaxed, at ease, in peace. Now here’s the last part:

You’re breathing deeply, and you are waiting for clarity, for peace, for perspective to somehow arrive on its own.

But what if it doesn’t?

Too often, we wait for perspective to find us. We sit passively in the middle of a disagreement, a moment of tension, a crisis of faith, a conflict with someone we love, and we wait for the shift to happen naturally. But that’s not how growth works. That’s not how relationships heal.

Perspective doesn’t just land in your lap. It has to be sought out.

Let’s say you’re in the middle of an argument. Your spouse shows up late and you had agreed on a time. You’re upset, disappointed, maybe even hurt. The instinct is to react: “Why were you late?” Your tone is sharp and your mind is closed. You’re locked in your narrative. But what if instead, you chose to seek out a new lens?

What if you said, “I was a little nervous… everything okay?” And then you find out: the toilet overflowed, the kids missed the bus. The morning unraveled before it even started. Suddenly, being ten minutes late becomes a triumph, not a failure. You realize that if that had been your morning, you might have canceled the entire day. My daughter once had a pillow that said, “Today has been canceled.” And sometimes… that’s exactly how life feels.

Or take a parent who’s been frustrated with their child. They are disappointed in their school performance, their behavior, their attitude. It’s easy to label a child: lazy, unfocused, stubborn. But then, after years of confusion and frustration, they discover their child has dyslexia or ADHD or a processing delay. And in one moment, everything changes.

The child wasn’t lazy. They were battling a hidden struggle without the tools to explain it. And the parent? They weren’t cruel; they just didn’t know.

But they could have known. And that’s the point.

It is on each of us—parent, spouse, friend, teacher, Jew—to seek out the perspective that can change everything. To ask the second question, consider the unseen, and to look again, not for proof that we’re right, but for understanding we don’t yet have.

Because perspective is everything.

If you can do that in a fight… If you can do that when you’re frustrated, confused, or overwhelmed… If you can do that when life doesn’t make sense… Then you’re not just reacting; you’re raising yourself up and all those around you.

And sometimes, with that effort, the entire game changes.

Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt”l

The Ancient Secret

We often think positive psychology is a modern invention. But Chazal were always ahead of current conventions. What therapy teaches today, our Sages already knew of and spoke about centuries ago. Consider this Gemara (Bava Metzia 85a).

R’ Yehudah HaNasi visited the town where Rabbi Elazar, son of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, had lived. He asked the townspeople: “Does Rabbi Elazar have any children?”  “Yes, he has a son,” they said. “But a disgraceful one. He sells himself out for promiscuity.”

What did Rebbe do once he heard this?

Rebbe summoned the young man, gave him semicha (rabbinic ordination), and then sent him to be taught Torah by Rav Shimon ben Isi ben Lakonya, his maternal uncle. Every day, however, the boy put up a fight. “I want to go home! I want to go back to my old city!” Until one day, Rav Shimon turned to him and said: “Do you understand who you are? You’re smart and you come from greatness. You are Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s grandson! They want to clothe you in gold and call you ‘Rebbe.’ Do you really want to go back to your old life?”

Something then clicked, and the boy responded, “I swear, I will never return to what I once was.”

What did this approach work?

Because Rav Shimon didn’t condemn the boy or shame him. He didn’t tell him he was bad. He brought him close and told him he is capable of greatness. And through that, he was uplifted.

Eventually, he became a great man, a “Rebbe.” And when he passed away, they tried to bury him alongside his father and grandfather, but a serpent blocked the cave. A bas kol (a heavenly voice) declared that while he was righteous, he had not suffered the same yissurim (tribulations) as his ancestors who lived in the cave (see Shabbos 33b). That is why he couldn’t be buried there. But not because he wasn’t worthy.

He had reached a level as great as R’ Shimon bar Yochai. Who would have imagined at the time he was leading a decadent life that he could become who he became? Rebbe. Rebbe believed in him.

Never, ever give up on another person, no matter where they come from or what they have done. Someone so far from a Torah life can turn everything around and become as great as R’ Shimon bar Yochai. And equally so, never give up on yourself, no matter what.

But Rebbe didn’t just do this one time. Rebbe was the type of person who went from city to city, helping children.

On one of his visits, he asked, “Does this great sage, R’ Tarfon, have a descendant?” He found the grandson of Rav Tarfon, who was a similarly wayward soul. And again, Rebbe talked up to him. “If you do teshuvah,” Rebbe said, “I will give you my daughter in marriage.”

The boy repented and was transformed.

Why did Rebbe leave his own yeshiva to pursue these young men?

Because, as the Gemara teaches: “One who teaches Torah to the son of an am ha’aretz (ignoramus), even if there is a harsh decree against him, it will be overturned.” Rebbe recognized the importance Hashem attributes to teaching Torah and a Torah life to someone who doesn’t know of it. When you go out of your way and overturn your life to educate another person in Torah and elevate them from a spiritually lost or morally confused life, Hashem will measure for measure overturn the harsh decree that might be looming in your life.

And how can you most effectively help such a person? Modern psychology has offered a powerful method. But Chazal knew it long ago.

Look for the good and emphasize it, and thereby help the person reframe their life too.

Such is the power of positive psychology, or as I say, positive criticism. R’ Yehudah HaNasi knew the power of seeing the potential greatness within every person and focusing on that. And when he did just so, he changed lives.

And in our own way and in our own day, we can do just the same.

Rabbi Ari Neuwirth

The Tank in Your Life

An orphan once came to the Gerrer Rebbe, the Pnei Menachem, with a heavy heart. “Rebbe,” he said, “why can’t my life be easier, like my friends’? Everything feels so hard. I’m an orphan. Life is one challenge after another.”

The Rebbe listened carefully, then smiled gently and said, “Let me ask you something. If I could give you one vehicle—only one—for the rest of your life, which would you choose? Here are your two options: a beautiful, sleek car… or a tank.”

The boy thought for a moment. “A car, of course. It’s fast, smooth, comfortable. If there’s a race, it’ll win. Why would I want a tank? Tanks are slow, heavy, and—not very attractive.”

The Rebbe nodded. “True—but a tank can go where no car can. Its tracks cross deserts, climb mountains, push through mud and sand, and roll over obstacles. It can keep moving forward, no matter the terrain. A car? It gets stuck. It can’t climb mountains, cross deep sand, or force its way through a blocked road.

“Because of its size, weight, and awkwardness—what you call its ‘handicaps’—the tank can do what the car cannot. Those very limitations are its strengths.

“My dear son,” the Pnei Menachem said, “I know life has been hard for you. I know the terrain is rough. But Hashem has made you a tank. The struggles you face, the weight you carry—these are not here to break you. They are what will make you strong, resilient, unstoppable. And in the end, you will travel farther, reach higher, and overcome more than those who seem to have it easy.”

And that’s not just for him. It’s for all of us.

Hashem didn’t create us to be fragile, fast little cars meant for smooth roads. He built us to be tanks—to handle mountains, deserts, and obstacles—and still keep moving toward our destination.

So when the road is rough, don’t hate the weight you carry. Remember: it’s the weight that gives you the power to climb.