Rabbi Asher Weiss

The Supporters of Torah

When the Bnei Yisrael finally found water in the desert, it was bitter. This was not a minor inconvenience, however. They were exhausted, dehydrated, and desperate. Water meant survival, and yet, the water was undrinkable. Hashem instructed Moshe to cast a piece of wood into the water, and miraculously, the water became sweet.

The Chasam Sofer, in his Derashos, explains this episode. Water represents Torah, as Chazal teach repeatedly, “Ein mayim ela Torah—Water is a reference to Torah” (Bava Kamma 17a). Torah is the spiritual sustenance of the Jewish people.

But what is the eitz, the wood?

An eitz represents those who uphold Torah, the machzikei Torah. As the Pasuk says, “Eitz chayim hi lamachazikim bah—Torah is a tree of life to those who support it” (Mishlei 3:18).

The Chasam Sofer explains that Hashem was showing Moshe Rabbeinu a future reality. There will come a time when there is Torah learning, but there is a lack of eitz. There will be Torah scholars, but insufficient supporters. But Torah without those who uphold it will be bitter. Torah without a support system cannot fully sustain Klal Yisrael.

And here is the point. Hashem did not explicitly instruct Moshe what to do with the wood. The Pasuk says, “Vayoreihu Hashem eitz—Hashem showed him the wood,’ and Moshe understood on his own to cast it into the water.

How did Moshe know?

To support Torah, one must first appreciate Torah. To appreciate Torah, one must love Torah. And to love Torah, one must learn Torah.

The true Zevulun is also a Yissachar. The genuine supporter of Torah is someone who learns himself, at least to the extent that he understands the value, beauty, and centrality of Torah in Jewish life. If a person does not learn, does not taste Torah, does not experience its depth and sweetness, how can he truly understand its importance? How can he know what he is supporting?

In my experience, the individuals who most substantially support Torah, both personally and communally, are those who learn themselves. I know many successful businesspeople and professionals who dedicate hours every day to Torah learning. Many of them learn b’iyun. Many review the Daf once, twice, even three times a day. This level of commitment is something extraordinary and admirable.

Moshe Rabbeinu understood that the wood must be placed into the water. Supporters of Torah cannot remain external. Zevulun must enter the beis midrash. Support must come from connection, from learning, from understanding.

Only one who knows Torah can truly sustain Torah.

This is why the first event the Torah records after Shiras HaYam is this episode. Before anything else, the Torah teaches us a foundational truth: Klal Yisrael cannot go three days without Torah.

In the merit of Torah learning, may we be zocheh to beracha in our days, to Heavenly assistance, to consolation and to redemption.

Rabbi Nachman Seltzer

A Minyan for Mincha

I have a close friend, Rav Aharon Pessin, who travels frequently to America, and when he is there, he davens in one of two nearby cities.

He told me something fascinating.

In one of the cities, every time he arrives, there is always a minyan. Without fail. Morning, afternoon, evening, there is a minyan.

In the other city, he says, it is almost impossible. He would come to shul and simply wait. No minyan. Again and again. He found it baffling. How could it be that in a Jewish community, there is consistently no minyan?

One day, as he sat waiting in shul, he overheard two men talking. One said to the other, “Did you try the new kosher restaurant in town?” “Yes,” the other replied. “It was excellent.” Rav Aharon thought to himself: Wait a second. You have enough Jews to sustain a kosher restaurant, but not enough to form a minyan for Mincha?

So he went over to the gabbai and asked him directly. “How is it possible that there are enough people to support a kosher restaurant, but not enough people to make a minyan?” The gabbai answered, “Let me add to your question. We don’t have one kosher restaurant. We have two.” “Then what is going on here?” Rav Aharon said.

The gabbai said, “It all goes back to a curse of a rav.”

Many decades earlier, over a hundred years ago, there was a rabbi in that city, one of the early rabbis in America. He was a true European-style rav, uncompromising in halachah. He founded one of the first yeshivos in the country and insisted on proper standards of kashrus. The butchers of the city despised him. He demanded real supervision, real integrity, and they did not appreciate it. Eventually, they decided to take revenge.

On Purim, they sent a beautifully wrapped mishloach manos to the rabbi’s home. The rebbetzin opened the package, unaware that inside were starving, crazed rats that had been trapped together. They began attacking each other. The shock was unbearable. She suffered a complete breakdown and had to be hospitalized.

When the rav saw what had been done to his wife, broken and devastated, he cried out in anguish: “I curse this city. It will never be a makom Torah.”

And according to the gabbai, that curse came true.

People tried to start yeshivos, but nothing lasted. People tried to build Torah institutions, but no success. Even a minyan could not reliably exist.

Rav Aharon asked the gabbai, “Did anyone ever go to the rav’s grave to ask mechilah?”

“We tried,” the gabbai said. “Every time we attempted to organize a group, something stopped us. Once, we planned a trip, and the biggest storm in twenty years hit the East Coast. You can look it up. Everything fell apart.” “I’m in America for a few more days,” Rav Aharon told him. “Here’s my number. If you manage to gather a minyan to go, call me. I want to join.”

The call never came.

Rav Aharon returned to Eretz Yisrael and raised the question to Rav Elyashivz zt”l. Does the city have an obligation to ask forgiveness, given that it was their grandparents who committed the offense?

Rav Elyashivz wrote back a responsum. He ruled that technically there was no absolute halachic obligation because these were not the same individuals. However, there had been a profound disgrace to a Torah scholar. And therefore, the right and proper thing to do was for the community to go to the cemetery and ask mechilah.

The psak was sent to the gabbai.

This time, not just a minyan, but a large group went together. They traveled to the cemetery, recited Tehillim, davened, and asked forgiveness from the rav. Rav Aharon later returned to the city after a few weeks had passed. He walked into shul, and there was a minyan. Not barely. Comfortably. The curse had been broken.

In a moment of pain, in a moment of anguish, a rav uttered a single sentence. One sentence. And its impact lasted over a hundred years.

Words are not light. Words carry power. We sometimes say, “That was long ago,” or, “That was generations back.” But this wasn’t 2,000 years ago. This was a century ago. And the power remained, until it was addressed.

Before we speak, it takes only a moment to pause and ask: “Should I say this? Should I not?”

“Maves v’chayim b’yad halashon—Death and life are in the hands of the tongue” (Mishlei 18:21).

Words build worlds. And words can destroy them.

We must choose them with care.

Rabbi Yonoson Roodyn

Richer than Gold

The manna, the miraculous food that sustained Bnei Yisrael in the Midbar for forty years, was a one-time miracle. Chazal tell us that a miracle of that nature will never repeat itself again.

And yet, its message was so essential that Hashem commanded that a flask of the manna be preserved l’mishmeres, as an eternal reminder, placed in the Beis HaMikdash near the Aron. It stood there as living testimony to how Hashem provided for the Jewish people in the wilderness.

We no longer have that flask. But we do still have Parshas HaMan.

Even if one does not recite it daily, and many have the custom to say it on Tuesday of Parshas Beshalach, the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 1:5) writes that it is a worthy practice to say it. And even when it is not recited daily, it is certainly meant to be learned, understood, and internalized.

Parshas Beshalach is often called Parshas HaMan. But what exactly is the man? What does the word itself mean?

The word man is related to mana—to allocate, to assign a measured portion for a specific purpose. From this root come words like manah and manas, a portion designated for someone. The manna was not random nourishment. It was precisely measured sustenance, allocated by Hashem for each individual.

The Torah tells us something astonishing. When they measured the omer, one who gathered much had no surplus, and one who gathered little was not lacking. Each person ended up with exactly an omer, precisely what they needed for their nourishment. You gathered more? An omer. You gathered less? An omer.

But Chazal add an important condition. This only worked if your intention was to gather what was appropriate. If a person intended to take more than they needed, it would not work. And if they intended to take less, it would not work either.

Why? Because otherwise, after the first day, no one would make any effort. People would gather a handful and expect it to miraculously turn into a full portion. That is not how Hashem wanted the world to function.

This is the foundation of hishtadlus. A person must make a sincere effort. One must work and act responsibly. Judaism values hard work. But Judaism does not teach that hard work creates results. Hard work does not generate outcomes, but creates the framework within which Hashem allows outcomes to occur.

That is the foundation of bitachon. We are required to put in our hishtadlus, according to our abilities and circumstances. And once that hishtadlus is done, we leave the results to Hashem. If success were automatic and mechanical, it would be pure miracle. But Hashem wants a world that runs through effort combined with trust; not effort as the ultimate source.

This is the message of Parshas HaMan.

It is not that reciting Parshas HaMan is some mystical incantation that causes money to fall from the sky. Perhaps the correct understanding is closer to what the Chofetz Chaim explains: Parshas HaMan is not a guarantee of wealth. It is a guarantee of perspective.

If a person internalizes the message of the manna, that after sincere effort, whatever comes is exactly what Hashem has decided, then Parshas HaMan teaches contentment, calm, and security. That is true bitachon. Not that I will suddenly win the lottery because I said Parshas HaMan on a certain day. But that I will live with the deep inner knowledge that Hashem is providing for me, guiding my livelihood, and giving me precisely what I need.

Yes, I work hard. Yes, I put in effort. But the outcome is not in my hands. Whatever Hashem wants me to have, I will have. And whatever I have is exactly what I am meant to have.

That is the enduring lesson of the manna. And that is why learning Parashas HaMan and absorbing its message is so critical. It does not promise instant wealth. It promises bitachon. And bitachon, in the long run, is far richer than gold.

Rabbi Yoel Gold

Cornered at the Fish Grill

I was once having lunch at the Fish Grill, sitting at that corner table by the bench in the back. I was in the middle of my salmon filet, coleslaw, rice, fully settled, when suddenly, a man walks in, followed by his entire family.

He looks at me and says, “Rabbi Gold?” “Yes,” I respond. “I’d like this table.” I said, half-smiling, “That’s nice—I’d also like this table.” But there was urgency in his voice. Something about the tone made me pause. I looked at him, then at his family behind him, thinking perhaps someone needed to sit urgently.

Again, he said, “I really need this table.” Fork in hand, mid-bite, I hesitated for a moment, but then I said, “Okay,” and I slid down the bench to another seat.

He sat down, but not where I expected. He positioned himself facing the corner, directly toward the wall. No view or eye contact. Just the wall.

I continued eating, but my mind was racing. “What just happened?” I had mixed emotions. Curiosity, confusion, a bit of irritation. The whole thing felt strange.

And then I saw it. He opened his backpack and carefully took out an oxygen apparatus. He plugged it in and began taking measured breaths.

In that instant, everything shifted.

Immediately, I felt a wave of regret and compassion. He needed that table—not for comfort, not for preference—but for dignity. He wanted privacy. He didn’t want people staring.

After a minute or two, once he caught his breath, he turned toward me and said quietly, “Thank you so much. I’m sorry if I came across aggressive.”

My heart melted.

In a single moment, judgment turned into understanding and suspicion into empathy. A story I had written in my head was completely rewritten by reality. That is dan l’kaf zechus, giving the benefit of the doubt. It took all of two minutes.

We never know what another person is carrying. What looks like rudeness may be desperation. What feels like entitlement may be vulnerability. Sometimes, all it takes is a pause, and a little humility, to realize how wrong our first assumptions can be.

And just like that, the judgment dissolves.

Mr. Moe Mernick

Changing the World One Name at a Time

Do we want to be the people through whom Hashem brings change into the world? Do we want to be the catalysts through whom Hashem brings redemption?

If the answer is yes, how do we accomplish that?

The Gemara (Menachos 17a) underscores the importance of saying things over in another person’s name. When we hear an idea, an insight, or a teaching from someone else, we make a point of attributing it properly.

Why is that so significant?

Chazal (Megillah 15a) teach that one who says something in the name of the one who said it brings geulah, redemption, into the world. Why should that be?

Rav Matisyahu Salomon zt”l, as I heard from Rabbi Rosner, explains a profound idea. When Hashem chooses an agent to bring redemption, He is not looking for someone who will take personal credit. Hashem chooses people who recognize that whatever good occurs through them is not from themselves, but from Him.

When a person has the humility to say, “This wasn’t my idea,” or, “This came from someone else,” they are demonstrating a deeper spiritual truth: that they are not the source. They are a vessel. And Hashem prefers vessels over spotlights.

When we acknowledge Hashem as the true source of blessing, and when we elevate others rather than ourselves, that awareness spreads outward. It multiplies. And that is how redemption begins to take shape in the world.

We see this vividly in the story of Purim. When Esther HaMalka uncovered the plot to assassinate Achashverosh, she could easily have presented the information as her own. But she didn’t. She reported it explicitly in the name of Mordechai.

That single act of attribution set off a chain reaction. Mordechai was recorded in the royal chronicles and his merit resurfaced at the precise moment it was needed. That moment then became the turning point in the salvation of the Jewish people.

Esther did not claim credit, and because of that, history changed.

Every day, good things happen to us, small and large. When they do, we should say it out loud: Hashem is good. Hashem is taking care of me. And when we hear a meaningful idea, we should say it over in the name of the person who shared it.

The more we practice humility by building up others and by pointing back to Hashem as the true source, the more we position ourselves to be vessels for blessing. And perhaps that is how redemption begins: not with grand gestures, but with quiet honesty, humility and the willingness to say, “This didn’t come from me.”

May we merit to be those people. And through that, may we be zocheh to bring geulah into the world.