Rabbi Dovid Kaplan

A Gift from the King

Years ago, there was a Swedish tourist visiting Thailand who found himself in a tavern late one night. It was to be an evening of great merriment, he told himself. But after drinking heavily and losing his cool, he was abruptly thrown out. Left frustrated and angry, he defaced a public image of the King of Thailand with spray paint.

What he didn’t realize is that in Thailand, insulting the monarchy is one of the gravest offenses. He was arrested and faced a potential sentence of ten to seventy-five years in prison. The court sentenced him to ten years, already a harsh punishment. But in a surprising turn, the King of Thailand, perhaps moved by mercy, issued a royal pardon. The man flew back to Sweden, grateful to be free, and silently crossed Thailand off his future travel plans.

Why share this story?

Because it teaches us something profound about kingship.

In monarchies, you don’t mock the king, you don’t deface his image, and you don’t challenge his authority. A king must be taken seriously. And that’s exactly what Rosh Hashanah demands of us.

Rosh Hashanah is the coronation of Hashem. It is the day we declare His sovereignty over the world, and over ourselves. As we recite again and again throughout this season: “Hashem melech, Hashem malach, Hashem yimloch l’olam va’ed—Hashem is King, Hashem was King, Hashem will always be King.”

Likewise, from the beginning of Selichos through the closing moments of Ne’ilah, we utter the words, “Avinu Malkeinu—Our Father, Our King” countless times. It’s not mere repetition. It’s a process of internalization, wherein we strive to feel, to believe, and to live with the reality that we are standing before the King of Kings.

And yet, Rosh Hashanah is unique. It’s not a day of fasting and abstinence like Yom Kippur. We pray with intensity, but then return home to festive meals, rich foods, and celebration. This duality confuses many. Rosh Hashanah seems to be spiritually demanding, yet physically uplifting. How do we reconcile this?

The answer lies in understanding just what royalty means.

Imagine being invited to a royal banquet, to the inauguration of a king. You would attend in your finest clothing, sit with the utmost dignity, and conduct yourself with grace. Every bite would be measured, every word carefully spoken. You are not just eating; you are participating in an event of majesty. So too, the meals of Rosh Hashanah are not casual feasts. They are part of the coronation of Hashem. We eat, but we do so with reverence, knowing we are sitting at the King’s table.

Rosh Hashanah is our special opportunity to have a personal appearance with the King. And it’s not just during davening. It’s in our homes too, as we eat, sleep and carry on with our lives as human beings.

There was once a Jewish businessman from Morocco who traveled to France for work. There, he partnered with a non-Jewish Frenchman, and one evening, the Frenchman invited him to dinner. The Jew declined, explaining that he could only eat kosher. But the Frenchman insisted. “I’ve already arranged kosher food for you. Please come; it’s in your best interest. Tonight, the King of Morocco will be my guest.”

Curious and honored, the man agreed to attend. At the dinner, he was seated next to the King himself. They spoke warmly, discovering that they shared roots in Morocco. The King asked about Jewish customs and was intrigued when he heard about Bar Mitzvahs. Upon learning that the man’s son had celebrated his Bar Mitzvah two weeks prior, the King said, “I want to give him a gift.”

The businessman politely declined, but the King insisted. He pulled out a checkbook and handed over a check: €40,000.

The stunned man looked at the amount and protested: “Your Majesty, this is far too generous.” The King smiled and said, simply, “I’m the king. I don’t give less than that.”

This is the mindset we must carry into Rosh Hashanah. We have a unique opportunity, and that is to spend time with the king. But it is not just any king. It is the King of the World. We are not petitioning a limited being. We are not making requests to someone bound by constraints. We are standing before the King Who lacks nothing and can give everything.

But here’s the key: we must believe that He is the King.

To the extent that we coronate Hashem, that we truly crown Him King over our lives, that is the extent to which we open the gates of blessing. Not because we’ve manipulated the system, but because we have aligned ourselves with its truth.

When we say Hashem Melech, let us say it not just as a phrase, but a reality. Let us not just recite it with our lips, but with our lives.

We don’t crown Hashem as King in order to get blessings. We crown Him because He is the King. And as a side effect of that sincere recognition, the King, in His generosity, opens His treasury and bestows upon His beloved children blessings beyond what we could ever imagine.

Because Hashem is the King of Kings. And He doesn’t give anything less than that.

Rabbi Shay Tahan

The Choice

If there is one deeply sobering and powerful idea that has remained etched in my mind since I first heard it in my youth, it is from the Steipler Gaon, found in his compiled letters Kreina D’Igrata, which sheds light on a fundamental truth about Rosh Hashanah.

We are all familiar with the concept that parnassah, livelihood, is determined on Rosh Hashanah. But the Steipler writes that it’s not only financial income that is decided on this day. Every detail of a person’s life—including the pain, hardship, and struggle they will endure—is also decreed on Rosh Hashanah and sealed on Yom Kippur.

How much pain? How much challenge? It’s all measured and determined by Heaven.

The Steipler explains that there is a fixed “amount” of struggle each person is destined to experience in the coming year. You can think of it, he writes metaphorically, as something measurable, as if in grams, kilos, or any other unit. And here’s the key: you will experience that exact amount of struggle no matter what.

But there is a choice.

You can choose how that struggle manifests. If you take that hardship and invest it in something meaningful, such as bringing a child into the world, building a Torah home, taking on a spiritual challenge, or enduring the difficulties of a mitzvah, you transform that pain into blessing.

Yes, having a child is hard, and yes, raising a family, giving tzedakah, or shouldering communal responsibility can be painful and draining. But that hardship, says the Steipler, is the very same hardship you were destined to endure this year. At least now, it’s in the service of something eternal. And if not?

Then the struggle still comes, but in other, far less meaningful ways. The washer breaks, the car gets totaled, the business fails, health issues emerge. One way or another, the struggle arrives because it was decreed and sealed.

And so, the Steipler concludes, the wise person accepts that pain is part of the Divine decree, but chooses to direct it toward something purposeful. If we’re going to suffer, let it be for the sake of growth, of family, of Torah, of mitzvos. Let the struggle elevate us.

This is a transformative perspective to carry into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

We stand before Hashem, asking for life, for blessing, for peace. But we must also ask: how will I carry the struggles that are destined for me? Will I use them to build something holy, or will I spend them on broken machines and missed opportunities?

The choice is ours.

Rebbetzin Elana Mizrahi

Head-Smart Leadership

Every morning during the school year, I take two of my sons up the steps to wait for their school bus. It’s a bit of a hike, about eighty or so steps, and usually our little toddler tags along for the walk.

On the way down, she often says the same thing: “I want to go first.” And I let her. I slow my pace and I give her room to lead the way. It makes her happy, and why not?

But then I started thinking: who’s really leading whom? Let’s say she had a tantrum, screaming until I gave in and let her go first. Am I still in charge or am I being led? Or let’s flip it. What if I was so annoyed by her tantrum that I stubbornly insisted on going first, just to prove a point. Is that leadership either?

It’s some food for thought.

And now, here we are, on Rosh Hashanah. Wherever we may be, we’ll sit at our tables with symbolic foods: some with the head of a fish, others a head of a sheep, and we’ll say the age-old phrase: “Yehi ratzon… she’nihiyeh l’rosh v’lo l’zanav—May it be Your will that we be as the head and not as the tail.”

This same phrase appears in Parshat Ki Tavo. Hashem promises that if we walk in His ways, “U’netancha Hashem l’rosh v’lo l’zanav—He will make you the head and not the tail” (Devarim 28:13).

But what does it mean to be the head? Does being the head mean being first in line or being in charge or always getting the last word?

Not necessarily. The blessing of being “the head” is not about position, but perspective. It’s not about dominance, but discernment. Being the head means being deliberate instead of reactive. It means thinking before you speak, acting deliberately, and not letting your emotions drag you around like a tail being whipped in the wind. A head uses its seichel, its wisdom, thought, and restraint.

It’s easy to mistake noise for leadership or emotion for clarity. But Torah leadership—true Jewish leadership—means slowing down, thinking carefully, and acting in a way that aligns with your values and Hashem’s will.

So as we arrive at Rosh Hashanah, let us ask ourselves: are we leading our lives or are we being led?

Let us use these days to reset. To become the rosh not just in name, but in mindset. To parent, to speak, to act, to respond—from the head.

Because that is the real blessing.

Rebbetzin Tziporah Heller

Be The Light

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 101a) records the time Rabbi Eliezer HaGadol lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his students who had come to comfort him. R’ Tarfon, R’ Yehoshua and R’ Elazar ben Azariah attempted to lift his spirits by reminding him of his accomplishments. “Rebbe,” they said, “you’re like a drop of rain; the sun; better than a father and mother.” But he didn’t respond. He remained silent, unmoved.

Then Rabbi Akiva entered the room.

Rabbi Akiva looked at him and said, “Rebbe, suffering is good.” At that moment, Rabbi Eliezer sat up in bed and allowed R’ Akiva to proceed to explain why that is true.

Rabbi Akiva explained that suffering has the power to break down barriers. It strips away ego, pride, and even possessions. What remains is something raw and unfiltered; just you and Hashem. In that place of brokenness, there are no distractions. There’s no kavod, no honor, no money, no pretense. And in that vulnerable space, a person can form a deeper, truer connection to G-d. You might not see the greatness of it in this world, but that relationship is higher than anything else.

I want to share a story that brings this idea to life.

My daughter, Chani, volunteered for an organization called Zeh L’zeh, which means “this one for that one.” It is a beautiful program that supports people during times of crisis, whether it’s a terror attack or someone battling illness.

During a particularly intense period of terror, Chani was assigned to visit victims, but sometimes she was sent to visit patients in the hospital. One day, she encountered a young woman in Hadassah Hospital who had terminal liver cancer. She had fallen into a deep depression and had stopped speaking entirely.

What made her case even more tragic was how her young children responded. They didn’t understand her silence as pain or grief. They thought she had stopped talking because she didn’t love them anymore. She would just lie in bed, facing the wall, saying nothing. The hospital staff saw this as catastrophic for the children and tried everything to help, but nothing helped.

Eventually, someone called in my daughter’s boss, Rebbetzin Rothenberg, a seasoned expert in bikur cholim. Chani wasn’t in the room with her when she visited, so she didn’t know what was said, but when Rebbetzin Rothenberg came out, everything had changed.

The woman, who had been silent for weeks, was now not only speaking; she was recording messages for her children. And more than that, she asked to speak to other patients so she could give them chizuk. She was overflowing with strength, faith and positivity.

Chani asked Rebbetzin Rothenberg what she had told her. This is what she said:

“I told her the truth. I told her that if she, in her condition, could express even a single sentence of bitachon, of trust in Hashem, its power would be greater than anything anyone else could offer. That one word could save an entire city from terror. That one bracha could protect a platoon of soldiers. The impact of her words, of her emunah, of her strength, could change the world.”

And then she added, “You don’t see it, but hat’s the yetzer hara. He tells you you’re worthless and that your prayers don’t count. But you say Shehakol nihyeh bidvaro over a cup of water, and you have no idea how much light that creates in the Heavens.”

Chani was stunned. She asked the Rebbetzin, “How do you always know what to say to people?” “I learned it from my mother,” the Rebbetzin simply replied.

She explained that when her mother passed away, her father, none other than the Toldos Aharon Rebbe, called her into his study and said, “I want you to take over Mama’s bikur cholim work.” “I can’t,” she said. “I’m not Mama. I don’t have her strength.” But the Toldos Aharon insisted. “I will give you the koach.” So she took it on.

“What was your mother like?” Chani prodded.

The Rebbetzin smiled and told her another story.

“When we were children, we lived in Meah Shearim in deep poverty. It was so bad that even by the standards of the time, it was difficult. My father was still young and unknown. However, our most valuable possession was a refrigerator. Until one day, it broke. We called a repairman, but since the fridge wasn’t working, my mother had to go to the store to buy fresh food for lunch. She left the kids with my older sister and came back holding a treasure: one orange.

“One orange for four, maybe six children. She peeled it and handed each child a segment. Just before we were about to eat it, she held hers up to the light and asked, ‘What do you see?’ We looked and said, ‘Seeds.’ ‘Exactly,’ she said. Every orange tree in the world came from a seed like this. Look how brilliant Hashem is; He puts the future inside the fruit.’

“She had us smell the orange. ‘You see how good it smells?’ she said. ‘That’s how Hashem tells you it’s going to taste good. And look, He gives every orange its own little raincoat: a peel.’

“Only then did she let us say the bracha and eat.” The man fixing the refrigerator had been listening. And as the children recited borei pri ha’etz, he burst into tears. Later, they learned why.

He was a Holocaust survivor, a war orphan who had grown up on a secular kibbutz. He didn’t know his parents’ names and didn’t even know his own Hebrew name. But when he heard the children say that bracha, something in him awoke. Something stirred deep within his soul. He recognized it. He didn’t know how, but he knew it was real. And he wept.

In that humble, impoverished kitchen, with nothing but an orange to eat, he had witnessed something extraordinary. It was the light of emunah.

When Hashem created the world, it was tohu va’vohu—chaos, emptiness, darkness. But then Hashem said, “Yehi ohr—Let there be light,” and there was light.

That’s what we must wish for ourselves

That we should see the light. That we should be the light. That we should understand the greatness of what we do, even when the world seems dark. That we should find strength, and share that strength. And that we should always know: every act of faith, every word of encouragement, every bracha, every moment… it matters more than you can imagine.