Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg

Keep Marching

After the Nazis invaded the small village of Klausenburg, they began their celebration in their usual sadistic fashion. All the Jews were rounded up and forced into a circle in the center of town. Then, the soldiers brought forward the revered spiritual leader, the holy Rebbe of Kleisenberg, Rabbi Halberstam.

They mocked him mercilessly. They tugged at his beard, shoved him from side to side, and jeered as they trained their rifles upon him. The Nazi commander, grinning cruelly, turned to the Rebbe and sneered, “Tell us, Rabbi, do you still believe that you are the chosen people?”

The Rebbe’s voice rang out clear and unwavering: “Most certainly.”

The officer’s face contorted with rage. Lifting his rifle like a club, he struck the Rebbe across the head with brutal force. Blow after blow fell until the Rebbe collapsed to the ground, bleeding and battered. Still seething, the commander shouted again, “Do you still think you are the chosen people?”

Through pain and blood, the Rebbe raised his eyes and said softly but firmly, “Yes. We are.”

The officer kicked him viciously. “You foolish Jew! Look at yourself—broken, humiliated, lying in the dirt. What makes you think you are chosen?”

The Rebbe turned his gaze toward his weeping family and the trembling townspeople, then looked back at his tormentor. From the depths of suffering, he replied, “As long as we are the ones being beaten—and not the ones doing the beating—we remain the chosen people.”

From the back alleyways of a destroyed Jerusalem, to the ports of Spain in 1492; from the burning villages of Germany to the frozen wastelands of Siberia; from pogroms to crusades, from ghettos to dungeons, from death camps to bomb shelters—wherever Jews have been scattered across the ages, we have carried that same light.

And so, at the beginning of every new month, no matter where we find ourselves, Jews gather, whether in cities or forests, in exile or in freedom, to say Kiddush Levanah. We look up at the moon, and in its gentle glow we whisper: “Hashem, this month we will begin again. This month we will renew our strength. This month, we will strive to be better.”

Through tears we say, “No amount of pain, no measure of bloodshed, will dim the holiness You have placed within us.”

We keep dancing through history’s darkness, souls illuminated by faith, holding hands in small circles under the night sky, singing, weeping, and believing. For though the exile has been long and the night unbearably deep, as long as we remember the unimaginable holiness within our souls, we are undefeated.

So keep marching forward.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

The Quiet of Cheshvan

Cheshvan is a month whose very name carries a profound message.

Across the world, there’s a universal gesture used to call for silence. When you want people to listen, to think, to pay attention, what do you do? You raise a finger to your lips and say, “Shhh.”

That soft sound, the gentle passing of air over the lips, is understood as the signal for quiet. Rav Samson Rafael Hirsch points out something remarkable. That sound, “shhh,” is embedded in the very word Cheshvan. The name itself contains the call to silence, reflection, and inner stillness.

Cheshvan has no holidays. That is one reason it’s called Mar-Cheshvan, “Bitter Cheshvan.” Another reason, as the Midrash teaches, is that it was originally meant to be the month in which Shlomo HaMelech inaugurated the Beis HaMikdash. Because the dedication was delayed until Tishrei, Cheshvan was left “empty.” But in the future, when the Third Beis HaMikdash will be dedicated, it will be in Cheshvan, and its bitterness will turn to sweetness.

Yet even now, there’s a spiritual depth to this quiet month. Rav Hirsch elaborates that the word Cheshvan is also related to Chushim, our senses. Think about it: all of our senses—sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch—operate in silence. The month of Cheshvan is therefore a time to sense rather than to speak, to internalize rather than to express.

After the whirlwind of the Yamim Noraim and the Chagim—Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Hoshanah Rabbah—our souls are filled. We’ve just lived through a spiritual transformation, a complete upheaval. And now, Cheshvan arrives like a deep exhale. It’s the world whispering shhh. Time to slow down. Time to process.

We live in an age where silence has become rare. Our world hums with constant noise and distraction. I often call our phones weapons of mass distraction—and rightly so. The colors, lights, and endless notifications rob us of calm and sleep. Never take your phone to bed; and if you share a room, give it to your roommate for safekeeping. If you truly want to rest, take a book, and let your mind unwind naturally.

Cheshvan reminds us to pause, to review, quietly, all that we absorbed during Tishrei—the insights, the emotions, the resolutions. We can’t grow from experiences we never stop to reflect upon.

This idea is timeless. The Mesillas Yesharim speaks about the essential practice of hisbonenus, reflection. In our rush to do more, we often achieve less. We must carve out moments in our day to simply be. It doesn’t need to be long. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes of quiet solitude, with no people, no phone, no distractions. Just sit. Don’t even try to think. Let your thoughts come and go. That simple act can recharge the spirit in ways we can’t imagine.

This is different from Cheshbon HaNefesh, the daily accounting of one’s deeds, or reviewing what we did well, what we failed to do, what we could improve. That is essential too, especially before sleep. But hisbodedus, secluding oneself in quiet, is something else entirely. It’s the discipline of stillness. The art of listening to your own soul.

It’s not easy. The hardest part isn’t doing it; it’s making the time for it. The day fills itself, and suddenly it’s night. But if you schedule it, just a few minutes of solitude, it can transform your entire rhythm of life.

So as we make our way through Cheshvan, let us embrace the silence. After the thunder of the festivals comes the whisper of reflection. The world says, shhh... And in that quiet, our souls can finally speak.

Rabbi Chaim Rosenfeld

The Hidden Test

This week, we’re introduced to Avraham Avinu, and especially to one of his greatest challenges: “Lech lecha mei’artzecha—Go forth from your land.”

Think about that. Hashem asks Avraham to leave everything—his home, his country, his family, his comfort—and venture into the unknown. Would you do that? Would you leave everything behind simply because G-d said so? It’s an extraordinary test of faith.

Chazal tell us that every person in life experiences ten tests, just like Avraham. Each of us, on our own level, will face defining moments and decisions that shape who we become. Avraham’s tests were monumental. Think about it. Would you bring your own child as an offering? Would you go to war to rescue your nephew, even if it might cost you your life? These were tremendous tests of courage and faith.

But then comes one that, at first glance, doesn’t seem so dramatic. Avraham finally arrives in Eretz Yisrael, the land G-d Himself promised him, and what happens? There’s famine. No food. Hunger everywhere. So Avraham pivots and goes down to Egypt.

What exactly, though, was the test? He arrives in the land, there’s no food, and he leaves. Where’s the challenge in that?

Here’s the key: the test wasn’t about going down to Egypt; it was about how he responded when things didn’t go as planned.

Hashem tells him, “Go to the land I will show you,” and Avraham obeys. But when he gets there, the situation collapses. Most people would have cried out, “Hashem, what’s going on? You told me to come here; why is there famine? Why are You doing this to me?” That’s the test. Will you complain? Will you question? Or will you stay steadfast, trusting that there’s a reason beyond your understanding?

That is the essence of so many of life’s tests. It’s not about the big, dramatic moments, but how we respond when things don’t go smoothly.

Think about Bnei Yisrael in the desert. They traveled from place to place, and at each stop there was a new challenge—no water, no food, unbearable heat. What was the test? Not just survival; but their reaction. Would they complain? Would they despair? Or would they turn to Hashem calmly and say, “Please help us”?

Our tests in life don’t always arrive in the form of grand trials. Sometimes, they show up in the everyday moments. You’re about to fall asleep and realize you didn’t daven Maariv. That’s a test. You’re watching the game and a friend calls, “Let’s go to Rabbi Rosenfeld’s class.” That’s a test. Your mother calls and asks for a ride, and you’re thinking, “She could just take an Uber.” That’s a test. Life is full of these small, hidden tests. And the question is: how will you respond?

Let’s say you set out to do a mitzvah and suddenly hit traffic. You could get frustrated. “Why is this happening? Hashem must be against me!” Or you could take a breath and think, “If Hashem put me here, there’s a reason. This moment must be for my good.”

That calm acceptance, that willingness to trust, is itself a tremendous victory.

That’s what it means to pass a nisayon.

The Hebrew word nisayon doesn’t just mean “test,” like a biology exam. It comes from the word nes, a banner, something lifted high. Every time you respond to life’s challenges with faith and patience, you lift yourself higher. You raise your inner banner. So yes, Avraham’s famine was a test. Not because he had to suffer hunger, but because he had to decide how to interpret it; complaint or confidence, despair or faith.

Every one of us faces our own version of that test every day. Most of them go unrecorded. There won’t be headlines or fanfare. But between you and Hashem, you’ll know, you passed. You elevated yourself. And that’s what life is all about: facing challenges, rising above them, and becoming a little more like Avraham Avinu, the father of faith.

Because you are his child, and within you is the same greatness.

Rabbi Tzvi Sytner

The Courage to Keep Creating

Imagine you wrote a book. You pour your heart and soul into it and you work for months, maybe years, refining every word. Finally, you put it out into the world. And then you start getting reviews.

The first one-star review comes in. Someone writes, “Waste of money.” Then another: “Who made this person an author?” A third: “Don’t bother.” A fourth: “Thank G-d Amazon allows returns.”

Before you know it, your book has 700 reviews, and almost every single one of them is one star. And it doesn’t stop there. People start making videos; opening your book, dropping it into the trash, and uploading it to social media. Others start burning it. The clips go viral.

Can you imagine the humiliation? Could you find a hole deep enough to crawl into?

That, my friends, was the Rambam.

For ten years, the Rambam labored over the Mishneh Torah, fourteen monumental books of halacha, the first comprehensive codification of Jewish law. And what happened? He was condemned. Criticized. Rabbanim across communities accused him of arrogance, of overstepping boundaries.

Did that stop him? No.

Years later, he published Moreh Nevuchim, The Guide for the Perplexed, one of the most profound philosophical works ever written. And once again, he faced a storm of backlash. Communities banned the book. And soon after, in public squares across France and Spain, copies of Moreh Nevuchim were even burned.

Imagine if the Rambam had said, “That’s it. I’m done. They don’t like it. Everyone’s against me.” If he had stopped writing, we would have lost two of the greatest works of Jewish thought ever composed.

And the Rambam wasn’t the only one.

The Ramchal, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, was a genius from childhood. They say that by fourteen, he knew Gemara, Midrash, Mishnah—everything—by heart. At seventeen, he wrote his first sefer, Derech Hashem, an organized, accessible presentation of Jewish theology and Kabbalah. But because he lived only thirty years after the false messiah Shabtai Tzvi, people became suspicious. They saw mystical writings and immediately feared another heretic. So they banned him from teaching and writing. They demanded he stop completely.

Imagine if he had listened. Imagine if the Ramchal had said, “Fine. I’ll stop. It’s not worth the criticism.” We would never have had Mesillas Yesharim.

Instead, he left Italy, moved to Amsterdam, and kept writing—quietly, steadfastly and courageously. And because of that, every yeshiva today studies Mesillas Yesharim as a foundation of personal growth and spiritual development.

How much easier it would have been for him to give up and to live quietly; to be what we call a simple Jew who doesn’t make waves. But he didn’t. He chose greatness.

And that’s the message.

If the Rambam had stopped, we wouldn’t have Mishneh Torah. If the Ramchal had stopped, we wouldn’t have Mesillas Yesharim. And if you stop when the world criticizes you, we may lose the book only you were meant to write, the song only you were meant to sing and the light only you were meant to bring.

So yes, keep creating and keep building, even when the world throws stones. Because every soul that ever made a difference in Jewish history had to walk through fire first.

Rabbi Avrohom Stulberger

The Souls Made

Do we have the power to create a human being? Of course not. We’re mortal and Only Hakadosh Baruch Hu creates life. Only He decides who enters this world and when. And yet, from the very opening verses of Parashat Lech Lecha, the Torah reveals something astonishing. There is, in fact, an entirely different kind of creation.

The Pasuk says: “V’es hanefesh asher asu b’Charan—And the souls they [Avraham and Sarah] made in Charan” (Bereishis 12:5).

Avraham and Sarah “made souls.” But how can that be? Were they creators of life? Obviously not. Rashi explains that they “made” these souls by bringing people closer to Hashem. They spoke to them about truth, about emunah, about purpose. They lifted people out of the fog of idolatry and showed them the light of meaning.

That’s the Torah’s language. When you bring someone closer to Hashem, you are not merely influencing them; you are creating them anew. You’ve taken someone who was lost in spiritual darkness, disconnected, aimless, and given them clarity, joy, and direction. In the Torah’s eyes, that is nothing less than creating a soul.

“V’nefesh asher asu b’Charan” teaches that when you help another person discover Hashem, you’ve given birth to something eternal. You’ve breathed life into another soul.

And here’s the beautiful part: it doesn’t require extraordinary effort. You don’t have to be a great mashpia or spend hours teaching Torah. Even the smallest act—a kind word, a warm invitation, a thoughtful comment—can ignite something within another Jew.

A smile that softens someone’s heart. A word that encourages another. A Shabbos meal that leaves an impression. Sometimes, it’s just living with joy—being visibly proud, happy, and at peace as a Jew—that draws others closer. They see your life, your family, your light—and they say, “I want to learn more about that.”

And in that moment, Hakadosh Baruch Hu looks down and says, “You didn’t just inspire someone; you gave them life.” At that moment, we become partners with Hashem in creating souls.

So as we move through our life, let’s look around and ask ourselves: Who can I uplift? Who can I inspire? Who can I remind that there’s more light in this world than they think?

Because when we do, we fulfill the legacy of Avraham and Sarah, and become creators not only of bodies, but of souls.