Rabbi Noach Isaac Oelbaum

When Smallness is Greatness

The Arizal taught an extraordinary idea.

Every mitzvah a Jew performs today, even the smallest mitzvah, carries greater significance in Heaven than the mitzvos performed in the days of the Tannaim and Amoraim.

At first glance, this seems difficult to understand. How could a mitzvah performed in our generation compare to the mitzvos performed by the giants of the Talmud?

The Arizal explains that the answer lies in the spiritual environment of our time. We live in a generation of yeridas hadoros, a generation of spiritual decline. The Divine Presence is hidden; there is profound hester panim, concealment of Hashem’s face in the world; and emunah is challenged in ways that earlier generations rarely experienced. Precisely because of this concealment, the spiritual struggles of our generation are far greater.

When a Jew therefore performs even a small mitzvah today, it is often done in the face of confusion, distraction, and enormous spiritual obstacles. But specifically because the challenges are so great, the value of every mitzvah becomes immeasurably precious.

Now, if the Arizal already felt that the mitzvos of his generation, in the sixteenth century, possessed such elevated value, how much more so in our generation today. The spiritual tests we face are ones that earlier generations could hardly imagine. The distractions, the pressures, and the temptations of modern life are challenges that even the doros harishonim could fathom.

Yet despite all of this, Jews continue to serve Hashem.

The Pnei Menachem, the Gerrer Rebbe, offered a remarkable insight related to this idea.

Perhaps one reason the exile has been so long is because of the tremendous nachas ruach Hashem derives from the struggles of His children during this period. When Mashiach comes, the yetzer hara will no longer exist (Sukkah 52a). The inner battle that defines human spiritual life today will disappear. Without that struggle, the dynamic of overcoming temptation will no longer be part of the human experience. But today, every Jew who resists the yetzer hara, every Jew who struggles and still chooses kedusha, gives Hashem immeasurable pleasure. Hashem sees the difficulty of the nisayon. He sees the confusion of the world. And He sees a Jew who nevertheless chooses Torah, chooses mitzvos, and chooses to rise above the pull of the yetzer hara. That victory brings enormous nachas ruach to the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Perhaps, suggested the Pnei Menachem, this is part of the reason the exile continues. Hashem treasures the spiritual heroism of His people during these difficult times.

So never doubt the smallness of yourself. Because, in Heaven, it is just the opposite. It is greatness.

Mr. Charlie Harary

The Muddier, The Better

The Pasuk tells us: “Ma yafu pa’amayich ba’na’alim bas nadiv—How beautiful are your footsteps in your shoes, O noble daughter” (Shir HaShirim 7:2).

Chazal explain that this verse refers to Shalosh Regalim, when Klal Yisrael would ascend to Yerushalayim three times a year. HaKadosh Baruch Hu looks at His people as they come to Yerushalayim and says, “How beautiful are your footsteps in your shoes.” But when you think about it, that is a strange focus. Really? The shoes? That is what the Ribbono Shel Olam is praising?

There is a remarkable explanation cited in Rav Elimelech Biderman’s Haggadah, quoting Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, who cites the Vilna Gaon.

Imagine what the journey actually looked like.

A man leaves his home in the Galil to travel to Yerushalayim for the festival. Do we imagine that moment as some serene spiritual departure? It was probably anything but that. Picture the scene. The house is chaotic. His wife is trying to organize everything before he leaves. One child wants to come along, while another is crying because he doesn’t. The little one is clinging to his leg, begging, “Daddy, take me with you,” while the teenager rolls his eyes and says he does not want to go anyway. There are responsibilities waiting at home, fields that need tending, neighbors who must be relied upon, and concerns about what will happen while he is gone.

And then he begins the journey.

This was not a short trip. It was not a comfortable flight or a quick drive. It meant walking for days, sometimes weeks, sleeping outside and traveling in uncertainty. The first night he lies down under the open sky, he is exhausted. His mind begins to wander. “Maybe I should have stayed home. Maybe I should have taken my son who was crying. Maybe I should not have left my wife alone. What am I doing here?”

But he keeps walking. Day after day. Step after step. Hungry, tired, uncertain, and yet, he continues. Until finally, after the long journey, he arrives in Yerushalayim.

He reaches the Beis Hamikdash, and in that moment he sees the Shechinah. He sees the fire descending upon the korbanos, the Kohanim performing the avodah, the Leviim singing their sacred songs. The entire nation is gathered together in holiness. And suddenly he realizes something profound. It was worth everything. Every step. Every doubt. Every moment of struggle.

And at that moment, the Ribbono Shel Olam looks down at this Jew who has finally arrived, who is now standing in the presence of the Beis Hamikdash, and is living the spiritual dream of his life. And Hashem says something astonishing:

“It is wonderful that you arrived. It is beautiful that you are standing here. But do you know what I loved the most? Not the moment you reached the Beis Hamikdash. The journey. When your shoes were still on. When the road was long. When the doubts were loud. When the struggle was real. When you were tired and anxious and unsure whether you would even make it, and yet you kept walking. That is what I loved. You know what you receive? You receive the Beis Hamikdash, the korbanos, the singing of the Leviim, the presence of the Shechinah. But do you know what I receive? The muddy shoes.”

That is what “Ma yafu pa’amayich ba’na’alayich” means. How beautiful are those shoes. The shoes that carried you through struggle, through doubt, through effort, through perseverance.

We live in a world where the journey to the Beis Hamikdash can feel incredibly muddy. Every day we walk, every day we struggle, and every day we fight spiritual battles that no one else sees. But every step matters. Because to Hashem, every bit of mud on those shoes is not dirt at all.

It is a diamond. “Ma yafu pa’amayich ba’na’alim bas nadiv—How beautiful are your footsteps in your shoes.”

And the muddier the shoes, the better.

Rabbi Yossi Bensoussan

Believing Your Reality

Years ago, I found myself stranded in the middle of what could only be described as Nowheresville, America. I had no car, and the only thing I knew was that I needed to find a minyan for Shacharis the next morning.

Baruch Hashem, after searching around, I discovered a small minyan within walking distance. I went there the next morning, grateful simply to be able to daven with a community. After davening, the Rav shared something that has remained with me ever since.

The Navi (Shmuel I 1:6-7) tells us that Peninah, wife of Elkanah, would taunt Chana, Elkanah’s other wife, over the fact that she was childless. Despite this seeming to be extraordinarily hurtful, Chazal (Bava Nasra 16a) tell us that Peninah acted l’shem Shamayim, for the sake of Heaven, intending to spur Chanina to greater, heartfelt prayer.

The question, though, is how Chazal derive that this was true. What about Peninah’s actions reflected a pure desire to act for the sake of Heaven?

Before answering, the Rav he asked us to do something very important. “When you hear this,” he said, “do not think about anyone else. Do not think about the person you wish were here to hear this message. For just a moment, think only about yourself.” This insight has the power to change the way we relate to other people, and especially the people we love most.

Chazal understood something profound about human nature. There is simply no way a Jew could behave in a manner that is so harsh, so condescending, so insensitive, so painfully judgmental toward another person—unless they had convinced themselves that they were doing it l’shem Shamayim. Peninah believed she was acting for the sake of Heaven.

Notice carefully what Chazal (cited in Rashi, Shmuel 1:6) say—and what is not said. Chazal do not say that Heaven considered her actions to be l’shem Shamayim. Rather, they state: “L’shem shamayim niskavna—She intended [her actions] to be for the Sake of Heaven.” Peninabelieved her actions were purely for Hashem, solely to bring Chana to more fervent tefillah.

That realization is deeply unsettling.

How often do we justify our words, our judgments, and our criticisms by convincing ourselves that we are acting for the right reasons? We tell ourselves that we know what is best. We are certain we understand what someone else should be doing. We decide that we know the correct path for them, for their family, for their life. And when reality does not align with our expectations, we wonder why Hashem does not seem to be cooperating with our plan.

But the truth is far simpler and far more humbling. The world does not revolve around our judgments. It does not matter who is in office. It does not matter who our neighbors are. It does not matter whether circumstances unfold the way we would have chosen.

Hashem is running the world. And the moment we truly internalize that—when we surrender our need to control, to judge, to assume that we know everything—we begin to live with a different kind of peace. A deeper peace. Because when we stop trying to run the world ourselves, we finally allow Hashem to do what He has always been doing all along.

Running it perfectly.

Rabbi Michael Mansour

Writing the News

I once heard a beautiful thought quoted in the name of Rabbi Gamliel Rabinowitz shlita. It is a powerful perspective, especially when we think about the events of the Six-Day War.

Today, when people speak about that war, they often speak about it with confidence, almost as if the outcome had always been obvious. But anyone who knows the history understands that at the time, the situation looked extremely bleak. Many believed that the State of Israel might not survive.

The surrounding Arab armies were preparing for war. Egypt was mobilizing. The atmosphere was filled with fear. Across Israel and throughout Jewish communities around the world, people genuinely believed that the country might be destroyed.

In cities across Israel and abroad, Jews gathered to say Tehillim day and night. Literally twenty-four hours a day, minyanim were assembled, pouring their hearts out in prayer. People did not stop, coming in shifts and constantly reciting Tehillim and begging Hashem for mercy.

At one shul outside of Irael at one point, in the middle of one of these prayers, a man quietly stepped outside.

An elderly Jew noticed and asked him, “Where are you going?” “I want to check the news,” the man replied. “I have family in Israel. My parents are there and my siblings are there. I’m very worried and want to hear what is happening.”

The elderly man looked at him and said something unforgettable. “Kan b’beit k’nesset osim at ha’chadashot. Ba’chutz shom’im et ha’chadashot—Here in the synagogue, we make the news. Outside, they listen to the news.”

Inside shul, through prayer, through Tehillim, through Torah and emunah, the Jewish people shape and steer reality. Outside, the journalists and the radio stations report what has already been decided in Heaven through the intercession of our prayers.

Rabbi Gamliel Rabinowitz has often repeated this idea in the name of that pious Jew. People think that history is written by armies and governments, and that success is determined by generals and weapons. But that is not the full story. Where is the real strength of the Jewish people? In the beit k’nesset and beit midrash. In every beit midrash where Jews sit and learn Torah, where voices rise in prayer, where hearts turn to Hashem, our strength resides.

That is where the chadashot are truly being made. The world outside reports the news.

But inside the shul and beit medrash, the Jewish people are writing it.

Rabbi Akiva Rutenberg

Never Seen

A teenage girl, about twelve or thirteen years old, was growing up in a religious home. Like many teenagers, she began expressing herself differently than the rest of the family. She started dressing in ways that felt foreign to the household. Such exploration is not unusual during adolescence.

But her father found it deeply unsettling.

What began as discomfort slowly turned into tension. The father felt disrespected and worried about the direction she was heading. The daughter, on the other hand, felt misunderstood and unheard. Each felt hurt in different ways, and the tension between them gradually intensified.

Over time the situation deteriorated and their conversations became minimal. They would say hello and goodbye, but the warmth was gone. Real communication had stopped.

At a certain point the father decided he wanted to interrupt the negative spiral. He thought to himself that perhaps he could send her a message that would soften the situation.

So he wrote her a heartfelt email.

In that message he told her how deeply he loved her. He reassured her that nothing she did could ever change that love. He wrote that he believed this stage of life was temporary and that he trusted the person she was becoming. The tone of the email was gentle, patient, and full of care.

He sent it.

Remarkably, within a day or two, he began to notice a shift. She seemed more open, less defensive, and their interactions softened. That in turn made him more open as well, and the relationship slowly began to move in a different direction.

Within two weeks they were speaking more comfortably than they had even before the conflict began. And one Shabbos afternoon, about two and a half weeks later, she approached him and quietly asked, “Can I sit next to you at the table?” For the father, it was a deeply moving moment. Later, when they were alone, he turned to her. “I feel so grateful that things between us have improved,” he said. “Tell me something honestly. What was it in my email that affected you so much? What did I write that really reached you?”

She looked at him with confusion. “What email?” He repeated the question. Almost amused, she said, “Dad… I don’t read email.” In that moment the father realized something profound.

She had never read the email. Nothing in her had changed.

He had changed.

Writing that email shifted something inside of him. It changed the way he saw her. He approached her with more patience, more understanding, more openness. And because he was looking at her differently, she began looking at him differently as well.

That, in many ways, is the secret of relationships.

When we become trapped inside our assumptions, the relationship enters a negative spiral. We begin telling ourselves stories: If they really respected me, they would act differently. If they truly cared, they would do this instead of that. But those assumptions often close us off from truly seeing the other person.

The Torah gives us a remarkable language for intimacy. The verse says, “V’Adam yada es Chava—And Adam knew Chava” (Bereishis 4:1). Intimacy is described as knowledge.

If break apart the English word intimacy, you find something beautiful within it: into-me-see. At the deepest level, every human being wants to be seen. And the way a person feels most seen is when someone genuinely wants to know them. When someone approaches them with curiosity rather than judgment; with openness rather than assumptions.

That changes everything.