HAGGADAH COMPANION 5786

Rabbi Shlomo Landau

Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us concerning the removal of chametz (Blessing prior to searching for chametz)

I was a young soldier in my first year as a paratrooper in the Nachal Brigade. Because I was known as “the yeshiva guy,” they sent me three days before Pesach to a remote base on the Suez Canal to kasher the kitchen and conduct a seder for the soldiers who would remain on duty.

When I arrived, I found a group of veteran soldiers, some just weeks away from discharge. They had endured the War of Attrition and had seen things I could not yet imagine. The moment they saw me, they burst out laughing. “Here comes the kid! The rookie! The kashrus supervisor!” Finally, someone to wash the dishes.

I wanted to protest and tell them I was a combat soldier just like they were, and that I jumped from planes and carried a rifle. But I knew I wouldn’t win that battle. So I stayed silent. They sent me straight to the kitchen.

The sink was clogged. Pots hadn’t been washed in weeks and grease coated every surface. I was handed a mountain of dishes and a sack of potatoes to peel. That night, I stood guard from 2:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m., staring across the Canal into Egypt. I tried to explain why I had come, but no one wanted to listen.

The day before Pesach, I approached the base commander. “We need to kasher the kitchen,” I told him. “No problem,” he said. “But understand, we’re eating chametz until the very last permitted minute. After dinner, you can start. Work all night if you have to.”

That night, I entered the kitchen and felt my heart sink. Chametz was everywhere. Thick layers of grime coated the stovetops. No one offered to help.

I filled a massive pot with water and set it to boil. I scrubbed, I scraped, I poured boiling water over metal surfaces. I worked through the night, alone, but by dawn, the kitchen gleamed. It was kosher for Pesach to the highest standard I knew. Exhausted but proud, I went to daven and planned to rest before the Seder.

As I passed the commander’s quarters, I froze. Next to his bed stood a crate filled with thirty fresh loaves of bread.

Something inside me broke. It was exhaustion, humiliation and the sense that it had all been meaningless. I stood there and began to cry. The commander noticed. “What’s wrong, soldier? Why are you crying?” I pointed to the bread, unable to speak. “It’s not in the kitchen,” he said casually. Through tears, I managed to whisper, “For three thousand years… the Jewish people have eaten matzah on this night…” My voice cracked. I couldn’t finish.

He looked at me for a long moment. Something in his face softened. “Take the crate,” he said, quietly. “Burn it with the chametz. I will not be the one to break a tradition of three thousand years.”

That afternoon, I prepared the Seder for twenty soldiers who had remained on base. I spread a white plastic tablecloth, placed white kippot from the military rabbinate on each chair and arranged the Seder plates with matzah, maror, charoses and the rest.

Before we began, one soldier leaned over and said, “Listen, Rabbi, we’re the army. No sermons. We just want dinner.” The commander stood up and said, “For three thousand years the Jewish people have eaten matzah. Let’s hear the rabbi explain why.”

I understood what he was doing. So I began.

“We are soldiers defending our independence and our freedom. But when did our freedom begin? Over three thousand years ago, when we left Egypt. That was when we stopped being slaves and became a free people. That was when Moshe stood before Pharaoh and said, ‘Let my people go.’ Since then, that cry has echoed through history.”

I spoke about spiritual freedom, about how empires ruled our bodies but never our souls. How even in exile, we remained inwardly free, and how that freedom carried us back to the Land. I held up the matzah.

“It’s simple. Just flour and water. It didn’t rise. It didn’t puff up. It’s humble. Chametz swells with pride, but matzah stays small.” To my astonishment, they were silently listening.

When I lifted the cup for Kiddush, someone said, “Rabbi… tell us more.” I told them I was five years old when I left Egypt after my father was arrested for his Jewish beliefs. I told them about boarding the ship Moledet, and coming to Israel like our ancestors. I told them about Sedarim in Egypt where we whispered, “Next year in Jerusalem.”

We read the Haggadah together. After two cups of wine—we could barely follow the text—suddenly someone began singing Avadim Hayinu. Then Mah Nishtanah. Then Dayenu. Voices joined in, rough and unpolished, but full. Songs from childhood resurfaced from places long buried.

At the end of the Seder, the company commander approached me. He shook my hand, his eyes moist. “Three thousand years,” he said quietly. “Tonight, we didn’t break the chain. We made sure our link stayed strong.”

We sure did.

Rabbi Yom Tov Glaser

It is customary to buy wheat to distribute to the poor before Pesach (Rama, Orach Chaim 429:1)

Years ago, someone handed me $3,600 and said, “Would you please walk around and play G-d for the right people before Pesach?”

What an assignment.

So I started looking, carefully, watching faces and body language, and the other subtle signs that someone is carrying a heavier burden in their life than they should. I went into a barbershop and handed the barber some money. “Give a few free haircuts,” I said. “You know who needs it.” I stood in a grocery store and told the cashier quietly, “Don’t charge that family for this. This is for them.” I walked up to people buying Yom Tov food and slipped something into their hands.

Some burst into tears. Many of them would never ask for tzedakah, but they were drowning quietly.

As I walked around doing this, I was reminded of a story from my own life.

Years ago, I was a young avreich in kollel. I had already learned three years at Aish HaTorah and was continuing in kollel afterward. My wife and I lived in a tiny apartment in a small Jerusalem neighborhood with two little rooms, a small dining table that somehow hosted guests every Shabbos, and an accordion partition separating our bed from where the children slept. It was simple, very simple, the rent amounting to $400 a month.

At one point, I had missed three months.

The landlord called me the night before the deadline. “If you don’t come up with $1,200 tomorrow,” he said, “you’re out.” I hadn’t even told my wife yet.

That night, I was learning in Botei Broideh with my night chavrusa. He looked at me and said, “You’re not here. You’re not focused tonight. What’s going on?” I told him. “Tomorrow we’re getting evicted.” We learned a bit more and I managed to focus somewhat, now that it was off my chest.

On my way home, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was another avreich from the beis midrash. I knew him by face, but not personally. “I overheard what you were telling your chavrusa,” he said. He put $1,200 into my hand. “I have extra this month. Pay your landlord. Stay in the neighborhood.” I broke down. “I don’t even know when I can pay you back.” “You’re not paying me back,” he said. “This is meant for you to keep.”

I paid the landlord the next day. We are now over thirty years in that neighborhood.

Yes, we eventually moved to a slightly bigger place, but we stayed. And that stability changed everything. Being in that community put us on the map, gave us shoulders to stand on, granted our children roots, and allowed us to build.

Years later, I learned that this avreich had five children sleeping in two rooms. He wasn’t wealthy, and the money had come to him unexpectedly. But when he heard “$1,200,” something clicked inside him. “This must be for that young avreich.”

He didn’t just give money. He gave my life and my family’s life trajectory. You never know what your gift is actually funding.

You think you’re covering rent, but you might be anchoring a family for decades. You think you’re buying groceries; you might be preserving dignity. You think you’re giving a haircut; you might be restoring self-worth before Yom Tov.

And so, if you have a little extra, look for creative ways to give it. Not only through organizations, but through human encounters and noticing and seeing the pain in another person’s eyes. Be there at the right moment.

Because if you are, you might be the tap on someone’s shoulder that keeps them from being uprooted and grants them and their family more than just a good Yom Tov.

It gives them a good life.

Rabbi Jonathan Rietti

Who has chosen us from all the nations… (Kiddush)

Rav Nachman of Breslov paints the following mashal.

Once upon a time, there was a king who had an only son who was the crown prince and the entire future of the kingdom rested on this boy. One day, the king would pass on, and the son would inherit the throne. The king spared no expense in educating him, including tutors, scholars and other wise sages from across the expanse of near and far lands.

Until one day, the prince disappeared.

The palace erupted into turmoil. Servants searched everywhere until someone finally reported, “Your Majesty… we found him.” “Where is he?” asked the king, beside himself at this point. “Under the royal banquet table.” The king couldn’t believe it. “My son, what are you doing? Come out at once!”

From under the table came the reply: “I am not a prince. I am a turkey.” True to his word, as the king peered underneath the table, there was the prince, pecking crumbs off the floor, his clothes cast aside.

The king was devastated. Had the prince gone mad? Royal physicians came and went, and experts tried every method. But to no avail; nothing worked. Over and over, the prince insisted, “I am a turkey.”

Finally, a wise man arrived. “I can cure him,” he said. The king, exhausted, agreed to give him one final try.

The wise man crawled under the table beside the prince and put aside his shirt and pants, just like the prince had. “Who are you?” asked the prince. “I am a turkey. Who are you?” “I’m a turkey too.” Together, they pecked at crumbs for a while. Then the wise man signaled a servant and a shirt was passed under the table.

“What are you doing?” the prince asked. “Putting on a shirt.” “But turkeys don’t wear shirts!” shouted the prince. “Why not?” said the wise man. “Do you think that just because I’m a turkey, I can’t wear a shirt?” The prince thought about it. Eventually, pants were also passed under the table. “Turkeys don’t wear pants!” “Why not? I can wear pants and still be a turkey.”

Then came food on a plate. “Turkeys eat off the floor!” “Do you think that just because I’m a turkey, I can’t eat from a plate?” Chairs were soon brought in, followed by a table. Step by step, the prince followed suit. Until one day, he was dressed, seated, eating properly, and acting like a prince again.

The wise man never argued with him and never shamed him. He entered his world and slowly lifted him back to himself.

That is the mashal. The lesson is profound.

Chazal teach, “Kol Yisrael b’nei malachim hem” (Shabbos 67a). Every Jew is royalty. But sometimes we forget, and sometimes we act beneath who we are. We speak words not fitting for royalty, we chase distractions, and we tell ourselves, “Holiness is for tzaddikim and growth is for special people. Not me.”

But as a matter of fact, you are still a prince. Even if you’re under the table and even if you think you’re a turkey, your essence has not changed. You may be acting differently and you may be confused about who you are. But your neshama is still wired as royalty because Hashem created you as a child of the King.

Sometimes growth does not begin with shouting at ourselves. It begins with one small step. One shirt. One pair of trousers. One mitzvah. One better choice.

“Do you think that just because I’m a turkey, I can’t…?” No. You are a ben melech, a bas melech. And one day, when the neshama leaves the body and stands before the King, the greatest revelation will not be something new. It will be the discovery of what was always true.

We were royalty all along.

Rabbi Ephraim Wachsman

And sanctified us with His commandments… (Kiddush)

I once had the occasion to travel first class to Los Angeles. It was a gift and a story unto itself. But there I was, seated in one of those wide, luxurious seats with more space than I knew what to do with.

Next to me sat a man dressed in a rather unusual way. It wasn’t clear to me where he was from or what his background was. Very quickly, though, it became obvious that he was someone important. An entourage hovered around him and people came to check on him. Others approached for autographs. I noticed, but I made no effort to show it.

I was learning, my Gemara wide open before me. After watching me for a while, he finally asked, “What are you doing?” “This,” I told him, “is the Talmud. I’m learning.”

He seemed puzzled. Perhaps he was waiting for me to ask the obvious question: “Who are you?” But I didn’t. His bodyguards could protect him from many things, but not from the discomfort of anonymity.

And so, finally, he said it himself. He told me his name. An internationally famous rock star and global celebrity. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Rabbi Wachsman.”

Out of nowhere, he began telling me about his wealth. “There’s a lot of money in singing,” he said. “For a private event, I get a hundred thousand dollars an hour.” He told me about magazine write-ups, and how they underestimated his net worth because they hadn’t counted all his hidden assets. At one point, he even said, “Maybe you want my autograph.” He pulled out a glossy photograph of himself and wrote, “To my friend, with love.” He was almost pleading.

As I sat there, I thought… how tragic.

Here is a man with all the trappings of royalty. Hundreds of millions of dollars, chauffeurs and assistants, fame across continents. And yet there was no malchus, no inner royalty. He needed me to know who he was and needed me to be impressed. He needed validation.

That is not kingship. That is dependence.

We do not need the trappings as Jews. We do not need the external glitter. A Yid carries royalty inside. “Banim atem la’Hashem Elokeichem—You are the children of Hashem, your G-d” (Devarim 14:1). We are children of the King and our dignity is not purchased; it is inherited.

I once witnessed something at the Kosel that drove this point home.

A Lubavitcher chassid approached a young American tourist who was wearing a loud shirt, sporting a backwards cap and carrying himself with confident bravado. He had the kind of demeanor that says, “Don’t bother me.” The chassid gently asked if he would like to put on tefillin. The young man resisted, brushing him off and dismissing him. But the chassid persisted, kindly and patiently, until finally the young man relented. “Fine. Just to get you off my back.” So he began wrapping the tefillin.

I was standing close enough to see his face. As soon as the straps touched his arm, his entire body began to tremble, his bravado evaporating and his lips quivering. Tears began pouring down his face. He could barely say the words.

There was something inside him that had been waiting for years; something buried under layers of noise and distance. A neshama sighing silently. And a moment of kedushah brought it flooding out.

We see this again and again. The spark is there and the royalty is there. Sometimes it is buried beneath wealth, beneath ego, beneath rebellion or distraction. But it is there. A Yid does not need applause to know who he is. He does not need an entourage to feel significant. He carries within him a piece of the Divine.

Sometimes all it takes is one quiet moment— a pair of tefillin, a Pasuk, a word of Torah— and the prince emerges. And on the night of the Seder, we have so many kinds of these opportunities.

The floodgates are open. Enter and never again remain the same.

Rabbi Paysach Krohn

The festival of our freedom… (Kiddush)

The month of Nissan is among the most powerful periods of the Jewish year. It represents the beginning of redemption and our national identity, and likewise, the beginning of our calendar cycle of Yomim Tovim.

There is perhaps no Yom Tov for which we prepare more intensely. Men and women and parents and children invest effort, thought and anticipation. Pesach demands preparation, undoubtedly. To me, in particular, Pesach represents three foundational, thematic ideas that in English all begin with the letter F:

Freedom, festivity and family.

Let us begin with freedom.

The Gemara (Pesachim 116b) tells us that each person must view himself as though he personally left Mitzrayim. But what did that look like? What did it feel like?

If you look at images today of refugees fleeing oppressive regimes, the likes of crowded boats with desperate faces filled with fear, uncertainty and longing for safety, you begin to grasp the emotional reality. For two hundred and ten years, the Jewish people were enslaved and did not imagine freedom was possible. And then, suddenly, the gates opened.

That is Pesach.

We must teach our children that not only were we redeemed then, but that we live today with religious freedom. When in Jewish history could tens of thousands gather publicly for Torah events? When could yeshivos, Bais Yaakov schools and kollelim flourish openly? Freedom is not to be taken for granted. Pesach demands that we speak about it, cherish it, and thank Hashem for it.

Festivity is next.

Pesach is not only freedom, but equally so, festivity. We recite Hallel, dress in Yom Tov clothing and prepare special foods. The table is adorned and the atmosphere is elevated. The Seder night is filled with song, discussion, joy and praise.

Redemption is not sterile. It is celebrated.

And finally, family.

There is no other Yom Tov in the Jewish year that gathers generations together the way Pesach does. The Seder is intergenerational Torah transmission in its purest form. It is parents and grandparents bringing children back to Sinai, back to emunah, back to identity and legacy.

Allow me to share a moment when these three aspects—freedom, festivity and family—came together.

A few days before one Yom Tov, Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach zt”l called his nephew, Michel, and said, “I want you to come to my home immediately after you burn your chametz.” Erev Pesach is one of the busiest times imaginable, but when the gadol hador asks you to come, you come. Michel burned his chametz and hurried over.

On the table were ten sealed envelopes, each one carefully labeled with a name and address. “Please deliver these right away,” Rav Shlomo Zalman said.

Michel was puzzled. He was involved in communal work and knew many of the families listed, some of which had already received financial assistance for their Yom Tov needs. Why would they need this delivery and why urgently now? Still, he did not question his uncle. He went door to door, delivering the envelopes quickly.

At the fifth house, the recipient opened the envelope immediately, and Michel happened to glance inside. He was stunned. Inside were tickets to the Gan HaChayot, the Biblical Zoo in Yerushalayim, and some cash.

At the sixth home, the same thing. Tickets to the zoo, plus money. Michel did not understand, but there was no time to ask. Yom Tov was approaching. On the first day of Chol HaMoed, however, right after davening, he went straight to his uncle. “Please explain. Why was it so urgent to give zoo tickets Erev Pesach?”

“I know the children of Yerushalayim,” Rav Shlomo Zalman said. “On Yom Tov, they will talk in shul about where their parents are taking them on Chol HaMoed. And some children come from families who cannot afford outings, and when they will hear their friends speaking and feel embarrassed, they will go home upset. The parents will then also feel pain that they cannot provide such experiences.”

He paused. “I wanted every child in those families to know that they too have somewhere beautiful to go.” That was it. He wasn’t providing matzah or wine or clothing. He was giving tickets to the zoo.

Simchas Yom Tov is not only about food on the table. It is about dignity. It is about children not feeling less than their peers and about parents not feeling shame.

The Rambam (Hilchos Megillah V’Chanukah 2:17) writes that there is no greater joy before Hashem than gladdening the hearts of the poor, the widowed, and the brokenhearted. Pesach is a time when we help unburden, however slightly, the lives of our fellow Jews, granting them even a moment of freedom. And by doing so, we do no less than grant our own family, our own Jewish brothers and sisters, an experience of true festivity.

Rav Shlomo Zalman knew how to do that best. He understood that sometimes the greatest tzedakah is protecting someone’s smile.

Even a child’s. Especially a child’s.

Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis a”h

One washes his hands [for Urchatz]… (Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 473:6)

Many years ago, after a major program we held aimed at bringing Jews back to the fold, someone approached me and told me about her daughter, a seventeen-year-old deeply involved in Christianity. She begged me to somehow help her return to a Jewish life.

We arranged a large event and word spread. And though people stood outside protesting what we were doing, we continued. When it ended, I went to the mother’s home and waited late into the night. The girl had not attended the event, as I and her mother had wished.

Around three in the morning, when the house was quiet and dark, the girl walked in. She turned on the light and froze when she saw me sitting there.

I didn’t argue with her. I simply hugged her and said, “Let’s daven.” And so, we said Shema together. By morning, she was on a plane with me back to New York, and in time, she built a Torah home, raised wholesome children, and became a vibrant part of Jewish life.

How did it begin? Not with a debate, but with connection, with Kadesh, withsanctity.  Similar to a Shabbos meal, we open the Seder with Kadesh by reciting Kiddush over a cup of wine, followed by Urchatz, wherein we wash our hands.

In Judaism, we do not always start with Urchatz, with cleansing and washing ourselves from our previous life. First, we connect and step into the realm of holiness, and afterwards we revisit ways we can undo our past.Kadesh first. Then you can wash away the rest.

Because when we connect first to Hashem, to our family, to our community, and to our own neshama, we will automatically be led to a new chapter and a new life.

Rabbi Yechiel Spero

Whoever is hungry, let him come and eat...(Maggid)

I know someone who has an exceptionally strong relationship with his father, and I once asked him, “How did that happen? How did you become so close?”

He told me this story.

“We grew up with just about enough,” he said. “We didn’t live in poverty, but we had no cushion. If something unexpected happened, we were suddenly over budget and had to tighten everything.”

One particular week the car broke down and there was a plumbing problem in the house. When that happened, bills began piling up. My father sat me down before they went shopping for Shabbos and said gently, “I just want to warn you ahead of time: no seven-layer cake this week.”

Now, a seven-layer cake was not just dessert. It was the highlight of our Shabbos. It was the treat my entire family waited for all week.

I nodded to my father. But I still asked my father, ‘Can I still come with you to the store?’” ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But just remember: no seven-layer cake.’ And so, we went shopping, aisle after aisle. And then I saw it. Behind the glass case at the front of the store sat the seven-layer cake. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

The woman behind the counter noticed. “Would you like some?” she asked. “No, no,” I said quickly. Somehow, though, my father had seen the exchange and walked over, making his way right beside me. “We’ll take a small piece. Just a sliver.”

I couldn’t believe it. But I was overjoyed. I knew my father meant what he had said, but somehow, there the cake was, tied up in a white box with string, and I walked out proudly holding it in one hand, while holding my father’s hand in the other.

As we walked home, a poor man approached us. “Please,” the man said, “something for Shabbos.” My father checked his pockets. Nothing. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t have anything.”

But the poor man looked at him again. His eyes were hollow. It was a look that asked without speaking. My father looked at the man and then looked at me. Without a word, he took the white box from my hand and gave it to the poor man. “Have a good Shabbos,” he said.

I was devastated. I loved that cake. I had waited all week for it. But then I paused. I had never been prouder to be my father’s son.

“That was the moment,” he said, concluding. “Not when my father gave everything to me. Not when he bought me something. When he gave something up.”

Children do not learn from what we say. They learn from what we sacrifice. Because in life, it is not what we get that shapes us. It is what we give.

And sometimes the most powerful lessons are delivered in silence, wrapped in a small white box, and tied with a simple string.

Rabbi Ephraim Eliyahu Shapiro

This is the bread of affliction… Now we are here; next year may we be in the Land of Israel.

The Maggid section in the Haggadah commences with the Aramaic phrase, “Ha Lachma Anya—This is the bread of affliction.” At the end of the paragraph, we declare, “Hashata hacha—This year we are here. L’shanah haba’ah b’ar’a d’Yisrael—Next year in the Land of Israel.”

Why does the Haggadah tell us that we are here? Most people are fully aware of their location. If someone is at the airport, he knows he is at the airport. If someone is home, he knows he is home. What is the message in stating the obvious?

This question was posed during the darkest days of the Holocaust. As the Nazis ym”s advanced toward the town of Chust, many students turned to the Chuster Rebbe for strength. How could they speak of freedom while catastrophe loomed?

The Rebbe offered a breathtaking interpretation. Do not translate Hashata hacha as, “Now we are here,” explained the Rebbe. Rather, understand it as, “Now we are still here.”

After everything we have endured—persecution, exile, destruction—we are still here. That is the miracle and that is the message. Klal Yisrael has survived the unimaginable. B’chol dor vador omdim aleinu l’chaloseinu—In every generation they rise against us,” and yet we endure. If we can say with strength and pride, “We are still here,” then we can say with faith, “Next year we will be in the Land of Israel.”

This is a powerful discussion to generate at your Seder. Speak about Jewish resilience. Speak about the inexplicable survival of our people.

Consider as well the egg placed on the Seder plate. One reason is its connection to the mourning of Tisha B’av, which always falls on the same day of the week as the Seder night. But perhaps there is another lesson.

How does one cook an egg? You place it in water and apply heat. The longer the boiling continues, the harder the egg becomes. That is Klal Yisrael. The more heat applied, the stronger we emerge. The fire that was meant to weaken us fortifies us.

Similarly, later in the Haggadah, we describe ourselves as, “Revavah k’tzemach hasadeh—Growing like the grass of the field.” What happens when grass is cut repeatedly? It grows back faster and stronger. So too with our people. Attempts to cut us down only intensify our resurgence.

We are still here. And we always will be.

Rabbi Joey Haber

If the Holy One, Blessed is He, had not taken our forefathers out of Egypt, then we, our children and our children’s children would have remained enslaved… (Maggid)

When people hear the word “story,” they often think of children. But that only proves that the power of a story is not fully understood or appreciated.

Think about it. What do you remember more vividly: Sefer Vayikra, with all its intricate laws, or Sefer Bereishit, filled with the lives of Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, Yosef and the Shevatim?

Our nation is built on story. The halachot are the “what” of Judaism, while the stories are the “why.”

We recently celebrated Purim—through a story. And now we sit at the Seder and relive Pesach—through a story. Stories shape identity, anchor meaning and inspire change in ways facts and rules cannot. And so, allow me to share with you one story that changed the way I personally strive to relate to others.

There was a young man named Yaakov, who was nineteen years old and terminally ill. One day, he told his father, “Abba, I don’t have much time left.” His father tried to reassure him. “With prayer, anything is possible.” But Yaakov insisted. “When the time comes, and there’s a levaya, I want only my ninth-grade rebbe to speak.” He handed his father a folded piece of paper. “If he asks why, give him this.”

The next day, Yaakov passed away.

At the funeral, only the ninth-grade rebbe spoke. A few days later, during shivah, the rebbe asked the father, “Why was I the only one asked to speak? I cared about your son, but I haven’t been in close contact with him in years.”

The father reached into his pocket and handed him the paper. The rebbe unfolded it. Tears began streaming down his face.

He explained.

“In ninth grade, your son’s class was difficult. There were a lot of cliques and it engendered a great deal of constant tension and friction. One day, I closed the Gemara and told the boys, ‘Today we’re not learning. Take out a piece of paper. I want you to write one positive thing about every single classmate.’” Each boy wrote something about every other boy.

“I then collected the papers. That night I cut them apart, and for each student I compiled a list of everything his friends had written about him.” The next day he handed each boy his personal page.

“That paper,” the rebbe said softly, “your son kept in his pocket. All these years. It reminded him who he was. It reminded him how others saw him. It gave him confidence.” At that moment, six young men who were sitting shivah reached into their pockets and pulled out folded papers.

They had kept theirs too.

We all need that paper. We all need to know how we are seen, what is good about us and what light we bring into the world.

There is a line often quoted: “People may forget what you said. They may forget what you did. But they will never forget how you made them feel.”

You want to do something powerful today?

Write someone’s paper.

Write it for your friend, for your spouse, for your child, for your parent. Write one for yourself. Because every one of us walks through life needing that folded piece of paper in our pocket, reminding us who we are and who we can become.

There is nothing more powerful than a story.

And there is nothing more powerful than writing someone else’s story by making them feel seen.

Rabbi David Ashear

Even if we were all… knowledgeable in Torah… (Maggid)

Around one hundred years ago, there was a world-famous chazan named Yossele Rosenblatt. His voice was legendary, people claiming it soared like a bird.

On one occasion, news spread that he was coming to Yerushalayim to serve as chazan in a shul in the Old City for one Shabbat. The excitement was electric.

In those days, many in Yerushalayim had only heard of him, but had never heard him live. Families rearranged their homes to host guests and people traveled from far neighborhoods just for the opportunity. By five in the morning, the shul was packed and seats were gone. People stood outside the open windows, and some even climbed onto rafters just to hear that once-in-a-lifetime voice.

In Meah Shearim, there was a young man learning at his shtender. That young man was Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv zt”l.

It was Shabbat morning and he had likely davened at sunrise and returned to his Gemara. He was immersed in his learning, but he also loved music. And he knew that Yossele Rosenblatt was singing just twenty minutes away.

He struggled. “This is oneg Shabbat,” he thought. “A wonderful way to enhance the joy of Shabbat and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But how can I step away from my learning?”

He closed the Gemara and began walking toward the Old City. As he drew closer, however, he continued wrestling with himself. “Can anything be more important than Torah?” Torn, he turned around.

On his way back, he saw respected talmidei chachamim heading toward the concert. “You’re going?” he asked. “Yes,” they said. “If they are going,” he thought to himself, “perhaps it is the right thing.” And with that, he turned back with them.

He entered the packed shul. And Yossele began.

His voice was even more beautiful than he had imagined, the entire crowd transfixed. Every note shimmered. Rav Elyashiv said later that he was blessed with an ear for music and could sense the melodious nuance. He was enthralled. Two minutes passed.

And then he stood up.

“I can’t stay,” he told himself. “Nothing is more important than Torah.” And so, he left and returned to his Gemara.

Seventy years later, as an elderly sage, Rav Elyashiv walked past that same shul with his son-in-law, whereupon he stopped. “What happened here?” his son-in-law asked. “Was there a miracle?” “Yes,” Rav Elyashiv replied. “A miracle happened for me here.” He told him the story.

“There were hundreds of people there,” he said, “and I so appreciated the music. I loved every second and I fought with myself to stay or leave. I had already turned back once. When I finally got up to go, it was still an incredible struggle. But I said to Hashem, ‘There is nothing more precious than Your Torah.’ And I clung to my Gemara.”

“That,” he said, “catapulted me.”

Greatness is not built in grand gestures. It is built in moments of quiet resistance, when an inner voice whispers, “Stay,” and you say, “No.” When comfort calls and you return to discipline. When momentary pleasure beckons and you choose eternity. That is how a person rises. Overcoming a nisayon is not merely restraint. It is propulsion, shooting you upward.

Rav Elyashiv did not simply have an ear for music.

He had an ear for greatness.

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

“Blessed is the Place, blessed is He. Blessed is the One who gave the Torah to His nation, Israel, Blessed is He.”

Before we introduce the Four Sons, we begin with an unusual declaration: “Baruch HaMakom, Baruch Hu. Baruch she’nasan Torah l’amo Yisrael, Baruch Hu—Blessed is the Place, blessed is He. Blessed is the One who gave the Torah to His nation, Israel, Blessed is He.”

Four times we say “Baruch—Blessed.” We provide four blessings corresponding to the Four Sons, because before we analyze, before we categorize, before we respond, we affirm something fundamental: every child is a blessing. The chacham is a blessing, the rasha is a blessing, the tam is a blessing, and so is the she’eino yodea lish’ol.

But there is something even more striking.

The name we use for Hashem here is not the Four-Letter Ineffable Name. Nor is it Elokim or Kel Rachum v’Chanun. We say HaMakom, literally, “The Place.” Why would we refer to Hashem as “The Place”? Hashem has many names, each reflecting a different attribute. Why here do we choose this one?

Chazal tell us, “Hu mekomo shel olam, v’ein ha’olam mekomo—Hashem is the place of the world, and the world is not His place” (Bereishis Rabbah 68:9). Makom does not mean that Hashem occupies space, but that every space is sustained by Him. There is no corner of existence devoid of His Presence.

There is another time we use this name.

When we visit someone sitting shivah, when grief sits heavy in a home and time seems to stand still, we say: “HaMakom yenachem eschem b’soch she’ar aveilei Tzion v’Yerushalayim—May the Place comfort you amongst the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

Why “HaMakom” at a time like that?

Grief isolates. The mourner feels as if the world continues—the sun shines, cars drive by, life hums along—but they are suspended in a private darkness. They may wonder: how did this happen to me? Where is everyone? Where is Hashem? And so, we answer gently: HaMakom yenachem eschem. Hashem is in every space. In your living room, in your silence, in your tears, in the empty chair, in the ache you cannot name. You are not alone.

The Mishnah teaches that on this night, a person must see himself, “Ke’ilu hu yatza mi’Mitzrayim—As if he personally left Egypt” (Pesachim 116b). We must not only celebrate redemption, but feel the anguish that preceded it.

The Torah describes that generation in Egypt as kotzer ruach—short of spirit, emotionally constricted and crushed by harsh labor (Shemos 6:9). They were exhausted and despondent and could not imagine a way out. The maror on our table is not therefore symbolic theater; it is an invitation to taste bitterness. And what does bitterness feel like?

It feels lonely. It feels dark. It feels as if no one understands. That is why, before we even speak of the Four Sons, before we retell the story of suffering and salvation, we declare: Baruch HaMakom—Blessed is Hashem Who is present in every place. Even in Egypt, even in exile, even in grief.

Some time ago, I returned from a mission to Israel with a group of women I teach. We met extraordinary people, among them a woman who lost her husband on October 7th. He ran to battle like a lion and was one of the highest-ranking officers to fall that day. Surrounded by terrorists, he was murdered al kiddush Hashem.

We sat in her living room as she shared memories of her husband. The walls were lined with his sefarim, alongside photographs of him smiling with his children. His presence was everywhere. And yet he was gone. “Now what?” one could ask.

But in that home, there was a quiet strength. A serenity that could not be explained by psychology alone. She told us that she felt her husband had prepared her for this moment throughout their life together. His emunah had become her emunah. Even in her grief, she felt Hashem holding her. As we left, I realized: this is Baruch HaMakom.

Hashem in every space. Hashem in the living room of a widow. Hashem in the tears of children. Hashem in the silence between words.

On Seder night, many chairs are empty and many families carry quiet fears. There is anxiety in the air, uncertainty in the world, darkness that has not yet lifted.

But Pesach is the night of Yetzias Mitzrayim, of leaving constriction. The word Mitzrayim shares a root with meitzar, narrowness or confinement. Every generation has its Mitzrayim and so does every individual person.

Before we tell the story, we say: Baruch HaMakom. Hashem is in your Mitzrayim. Hashem is in your maror. Hashem is in your questions. Hashem is in your loneliness.

If you open your eyes, you will find Him in the cracks of your heart. And that is the beginning of redemption.

Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg

Corresponding to Four Sons the Torah speaks…

Down the road from where I grew up in Rochester, New York, there is a high school where one of the most unbelievable emotional sports moments ever took place. This wasn’t the NBA or March Madness or a gym with celebrities and scouts. It was just wooden bleachers and a story that somehow made its way around the world.

When it happened, nobody thought it would become a sensational story, because the person at the center of it wasn’t supposed to matter. He wasn’t the star. He wasn’t even a player. He was the water carrier. The towel guy. The ball boy. And he had autism. His name was Jason McElwain.

Jason was the basketball team manager who for years had assisted the coach, helping with whatever the team needed, from handing out water to toweling off sweat to getting the players motivated. Enthusiastic doesn’t even begin to describe it. Despite being born with autism, Jason had no problem expressing himself at games. If anything, his father used to joke that he worried Jason would get a technical foul from yelling too much.

It was the last game of the season when the score didn’t really matter. The season was basically over. But that was when the coach decided to do something kind, something symbolic. He let Jason suit up. Not necessarily to play; just to let him feel what it is like to wear a jersey.

And so, with four minutes left in the game, the coach pointed to number 52: Jason. After years of fetching water and carrying towels, he was actually in the game.

His first shot was a 20-footer from the right baseline. Air ball. His second shot missed too. You could almost hear the coach thinking, “Dear G-d, please, just let him get one basket.” Then came the third shot. Swish. A three-pointer. Nice moment. Good for him. Then he made another one. Okay… Then another.

At this point, something shifted in the gym. This wasn’t polite applause anymore. People stopped sitting and started leaning forward. This wasn’t charity anymore; it was real.

Jason went on to score six three-pointers in a row and total twenty points in four minutes. The gym absolutely lost its mind. If you weren’t there to witness it, you wouldn’t believe it. The crowd went crazy and his teammates went crazy. Every shot that went in felt bigger than basketball.

All that time, they thought he was just the ball boy.

But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was a player who never got put in the game. And that’s where this stops being a sports story and starts being a life story.

Because this happens every single day.

We label people and reduce them to categories. “He’s just support. He’s behind the scenes. He’s the towel guy and the helper; not the builder.”

And once a label sticks, we stop looking, we stop expecting, we stop investing, we stop imagining anything more. And sometimes we’re not just wrong. We’re catastrophically wrong. Because sometimes the people we expect least from aren’t lacking ability. They’re lacking opportunity. They’re not empty. They’re loaded. Loaded with depth, fire and talent. They just never got called off the bench.

History is filled with people everyone misjudged until one moment ripped the mask off the lie. And the lie was simple but deadly: you can measure someone’s potential by where they’re standing right now.

But you can’t.

Because sometimes the towel guy is the deadliest shooter in the gym. Sometimes the quiet one is carrying oceans of Torah that no one ever bothered to tap into. Sometimes the guy nobody turns to is the only one with the courage to step forward when everyone else freezes. And sometimes, if we’re being honest, the most underestimated person in the room is the one looking back at you in the mirror.

Here’s the uncomfortable part. Sometimes we do it to ourselves. We hand ourselves the towel, grab the water bottle, and stand on the sidelines. “I’m not really cut out to learn,” we tell ourselves. “I’ll just support it. I’m not the type to give shiurim; I’ll just attend them. I’m not built for real chesed; I’ll just send checks.” Those are respectable roles and honorable roles.

But they are sideline roles.

So maybe this story isn’t just inspirational. Maybe it’s accusatory. Maybe you’ve been showing up your whole life being dependable, being helpful, being nice, but never stepping onto the court. Not because you couldn’t play, but because somewhere along the way you decided you weren’t a player. You were just the towel boy.

But Judaism doesn’t believe in towel boys. The Torah wasn’t given to fans. It was given to participants. You don’t need to be the star. You don’t need to hit nine shots in a row. But you do need to take the shot. The tragedy isn’t missing. The tragedy is never trying. The tragedy is convincing yourself you’re just the ball boy.

Because maybe Jason McElwain isn’t just the story.

Maybe Jason McElwain is you.

Rabbi Chaim Rosenfeld

The wise son, what does he say? What are the testimonies, decrees and ordinances which Hashem, our G-d, has commanded you?

My neighbor, Arlene, grew up completely secular, and for many years, that was her world. Then, later in life, she became religious. Years ago, she was sitting in my house and told me something that has stayed with me.

“You know,” she said, “something always bothered me about your family.” “What bothered you?” I asked, wondering what it could be.

“Every single Shabbos, I used to go to Broadway shows.” That was her ritual. Shabbos meant the best show in town, the best seats, dinner afterward at a fine restaurant, and a leisurely walk through Manhattan. That was her experience of freedom.

“And every Shabbos,” she said, “as I would leave my apartment, I would see your children.” She described them visibly: dressed in their suits, walking to shul, clean, composed, smiling, happy. “I couldn’t understand it,” she told me. “Why should they be happy? They can’t have their phones. They can’t watch television. They can’t go on the computer. They can’t do what everyone else is doing. So why are they happy?”

“Arlene,” I said, “you’re misunderstanding something fundamental. What you call ‘rules and regulations’ are not there to ruin your life. They are there to build it. They are there to create a deeper kind of joy.” It is not the fleeting pleasure of entertainment, but the steadier happiness of a person who is not owned by his impulses.

I offered her a simple analogy.

Consider America. In America, we drive on the right side of the road. In England, they drive on the left. But in either case, half of the road is off limits to you. Fifty percent is prohibited. Cross that line at the wrong time and you receive a ticket. Cross it recklessly and you may cause an accident. Persist in doing so and the consequences escalate quickly.

Now imagine a person who wakes up one morning and declares, “I refuse to live by imposed rules. I am independent. I will drive on whichever side I choose. I am free.” And suppose he persuades others to adopt the same approach. Within minutes, the streets would become unrecognizable. Traffic would collapse and accidents would skyrocket. No one would reach their destination.

What becomes clear is that the very rules which appear to restrict us are the ones that enable movement, safety and progress. They do not diminish freedom; they make freedom possible. Without structure, there is no order, and without order, there is no mobility.

We grasp this instinctively in the realm of traffic laws. Yet when it comes to Torah, we can sometimes forget the logic. We equate rules with confinement. But properly understood, rules are not a prison. They are structure, and structure is what makes a meaningful life sustainable.

I gave her another example: chess.

Imagine sitting down to play and announcing that your bishop will move however you please: forward, backward, sideways, diagonally, like a queen or a rook. When your opponent protests, you respond, “It’s my game. I’ll play it my way.” The result would be chaos. The game would immediately lose its integrity and its beauty.

Chess is compelling precisely because each piece has limitations. Those limitations generate strategy, tension, elegance and depth. Without them, there is no game.

Freedom, then, is not the absence of rules. It is the presence of the right ones. And there is no greater time to remember this message and internalize it for our future than this time of year.

Pesach: the holiday of the rules. Rules that liberate.

Rabbi YY Jacobson

Concerning four sons the Torah speaks… The wicked son

I once spoke to a group of yeshiva students who were wrestling with difficult questions. I told them I wanted to pose a simple scenario.

Imagine a person who was incarcerated for a number of years. Not Yosef HaTzaddik, and not in Egypt, and he certainly did not emerge to become prime minister. He was just an ordinary individual who served his sentence and was eventually released. How many such people, after leaving prison, would remain close friends with the police officers who arrested them or the guards who locked their cells each night? How many would maintain relationships of warmth and admiration with those who supervised their confinement?

The answer was obvious. Almost none. When they walk out, they want distance. They want nothing to do with those figures who represent repression and limitation.

Then I asked a second question. How many soldiers, after enduring the relentless discipline of a drill sergeant who pushed them beyond exhaustion day after day, maintain respect and even affection for that very sergeant? How many speak of their commanders with awe long after their service has ended? Many.

Yet consider what a drill sergeant does. If you salute improperly, you may face hundreds of push-ups. If you err, you run miles upon miles under punishing conditions. The sweat, the strain, the physical and emotional toll can be immense. And still, when it is over, those soldiers often revere him.

What is the difference?

The prison guard’s role is to confine. His objective is to restrain and to remind the inmate that he is imprisoned. The drill sergeant’s role, however, is to empower. He pushes, challenges, even torments at times, but his intent is to forge strength, discipline, courage and confidence. The soldier emerges transformed, capable of confronting adversaries and standing tall. The pain had purpose and the struggle had direction.

This distinction lies not merely in the commands, but in the intention behind them and the way they are conveyed.

This is profoundly relevant when we speak about Kabbalas Ol Malchus Shamayim, accepting the yoke of Heaven. One child hears those words and imagines a cell. Religion becomes a system of guards and restrictions, a set of bars designed to confine. Another child hears those same words and envisions a commander who believes in him, who demands greatness because he sees greatness.

For one person, Kabbalas Ol feels heavy and oppressive, and yet for another, it feels ennobling and elevating. One tastes matzah and finds it bland, whereas another experiences it as something precious and profound. The difference is perspective.

A healthy and meaningful acceptance of Malchus Shamayim begins with the understanding that this is the kingship of a G-d who loves unconditionally, who desires our flourishing, and who seeks to offer us the deepest genuine relationship. Without that foundation, the yoke feels like imprisonment. With it, the yoke becomes empowerment.

We often translate rasha as wicked or rebellious. But the Sfas Emes suggests something far more subtle. The rasha is depressed.

Consider his question posed here in the Haggadah. “Mah ha’avodah hazos lachem—What is this service to you?” Beneath the surface lies something deeper. Do you truly believe that insignificant beings like us can “serve” the Infinite? Do you imagine that our fragile, fleeting actions matter to an eternal G-d?

The rasha is not simply defiant. He is overwhelmed by insignificance. He looks at the cosmos and sees a tiny planet, a speck in an infinite universe. And from that vantage point, what difference does one person’s mitzvah make? Is the Creator of galaxies scrutinizing what I eat, what I say, how I wake, how I think? It sounds almost absurd. As the Baal HaTanya writes, does the Infinite truly concern Himself with each detail of a finite life?

This question is not foreign to us. At times, every human being confronts it. What is the value of my life? Do my choices truly reverberate beyond my narrow existence? In a world of billions, who even knows me? The rasha’s question is born from this melancholy. If nothing matters, why submit to a yoke? If my actions carry no cosmic weight, then religious devotion becomes meaningless ritual.

But then comes the Haggadah’s response: “Ba’avur zeh asah Hashem li—Because of this did G-d do this to you.”

The Sfas Emes explains that the very smallness that troubles the rasha is the secret of our greatness. Before creation, there was only Divine perfection. No deficiency, no distance, no concealment. Why create a world at all? Generations of Jewish thinkers wrestled with this question.

But the Midrash Tanchumah (Ki Tisa 16) teaches: “Nis’aveh HaKadosh Baruch Hu lihiyos lo dirah b’tachtonim— Hashem desired a dwelling place in the lowest realm.” Not in the loftiest spiritual worlds among the angels, but here, in physicality, in frailty, in beings who struggle and doubt and fall and rise again. The very fact that we are limited and finite is not a flaw in the system. It is the system. If Hashem wanted only exalted spirituality, the higher worlds would be sufficient. The purpose of creation, though, was that light should emerge from darkness, that the finite should choose the Infinite, and that a small human being in a physical world should turn toward G-d.

The rasha says, “I am too insignificant to matter.” The answer is, “Your insignificance is precisely what grants your service its infinite value.” When an angel praises G-d, it is natural. When a struggling human being, burdened with confusion and weakness, chooses faith and mitzvos, that act fulfills the very purpose of creation. It is not despite your smallness that your avodah matters. It is because of it.

When we teach this, Kabbalas Ol Malchus Shamayim no longer resembles a prison. It becomes a training ground for greatness. The yoke is not meant to crush; it is meant to elevate. The struggle is not evidence of worthlessness, but rather the very arena in which dignity is forged.

The lowest realm was chosen so that it could become a dwelling place for the Highest. And the human being, precisely because he is small and finite, becomes the partner in that transformation.

Rabbi Ari Bensoussan

The son who does not know how to ask…

It is no exaggeration to state that the heart of Reb Aryeh Levin zt”l, the tzaddik of Yerushalayim, was acutely tuned in to the quiet pain of others.

One winter day, Reb Aryeh was walking past a small cheder in Jerusalem. The children were outside during recess, playing in the yard. It was cold, the air carrying the kind of winter dampness that seeps into your bones. Until suddenly, you could hear a familiar sound echoing down the street.

Not the ice cream man. The tea man.

In those days, a man would go around with a large urn of hot water, a small flame flickering beneath it, selling cups of steaming tea to warm up passersby. He stopped near the cheder, as the children ran toward him, clutching their small coins, eager for a cup of hot tea.

As they lined up, Reb Aryeh noticed one boy standing off to the side. The child was clearly freezing. His pants had holes at the knees and his legs trembled in the cold. But he did not join the line.

The tea seller noticed him too. “My dear boy,” he called out cheerfully, “which tea would you like?” The boy looked at him. “No thanks,” he said. ”I don’t like tea.” The tea seller shrugged and turned back to the paying customers.

Reb Aryeh Levin had been watching. Quietly, he approached the tea seller, handed him a coin, and took a cup of tea. Then he walked over to the boy and gently placed the steaming cup into his hands.

The boy grabbed it immediately. You know that feeling—when you are freezing and suddenly you feel a surge of warmth in your palms. He held the cup close, absorbing the heat. And then he made a beracha, and desperately drank it down, gulp after grateful gulp.

The tea seller turned to Reb Aryeh, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I asked him if he wanted tea. He told me he doesn’t like tea.” Reb Aryeh looked back at the man, an understanding twinkle in his eye. “You heard him say he doesn’t like tea. I heard him say, ‘I would love a cup of tea, but I’m too poor to afford it.’”

That was Reb Aryeh Levin. He did not only hear words. He heard what lay beneath them.

People often speak in code, their words camouflaging an invisible secret. They do not speak of it, out of fear of embarrassment and the desire to protect their dignity. “No, it’s okay.” “I’m fine.” “I don’t need anything.” “I don’t like tea.”

But beneath those words may be a quiet plea. “Notice me.” “See me.” “Care about me.”

So perhaps the next time someone says, “No, I’m not interested,” or “I’m good,” pause and ask: what are they really saying? Is there a story behind those words waiting to be heard?

Because, more than often, there is.

Dr. Dovid Lieberman

You initiate for him [the son who does not know how to ask] …

I was once in Detroit, Michigan, when I met an extraordinary man. He had two children on the autism spectrum, one of whom was severely affected. He was a nine-year-old boy who was completely nonverbal and had never spoken a word.

The family did not even know how much he understood. He required total care and could not communicate his needs. The only reliable signal they had was food preference. If he didn’t like something, he would turn his head away. That was it. Otherwise, silence.

The father told me that one day he came home after an especially difficult day. You know those days; the kind that leaves you drained even before you walk through the front door. He walked into his son’s room just to check on him.

Children with autism can be extraordinarily perceptive. They may not communicate conventionally, but they feel deeply.

This child looked at his father. And for the first time in nine years, he spoke. One word. It was the only word he has ever spoken.

“Abba.”

The father told me that in that moment, his entire world changed.

That single word was his “Ani Yosef” moment, akin to the moment Yosef revealed his identity to his brothers in Egypt (Shemos 45:3). Everything suddenly became clear. His son understood and knew who his father was. He recognized the relationship. All the sleepless nights, all the therapies, the heartache, the love, the sacrifices were not happening in a vacuum. It was seen and it was felt.

Later, they were able to provide him with an interactive keyboard. And they discovered something astonishing. The child knew far more than anyone imagined. He knew his siblings’ names, he knew what Parsha it was. He knew birthdays and other details that would surprise most.

His mind was intact. It was just his communication that was blocked. And that one word broke through the wall and changed everything.

I left that conversation thinking how powerful a single word can be. Sometimes relationships are functioning and people are doing their best. Parents, spouses, teachers and friends give and give and give. And yet something feels incomplete.

Often, it is simply the absence of acknowledgment. One word of appreciation. One word of recognition. One “thank you.” One “Abba.” We underestimate how transformative a single word can be. That father did not need a speech or a paragraph. He needed one word. And it shifted the entire emotional architecture of his life.

Maybe in our own lives, there is someone waiting to hear a word from us. A parent, a spouse, a child, a friend. Someone who has been giving quietly. And maybe all it takes to transform that relationship is one sincere word.

One.

Rabbi Eliezer Krohn

At first, our forefathers were idol worshippers…

When Meshulam was a young teenager, his mother passed away and the loss shook him deeply. His father tried to raise him, but something inside Meshulam across the course of weeks, then months, then years began to drift. As time marched on, he slowly moved further and further away from Yiddishkeit.

One day, he walked over to his father and said, “I’m going to India.” His father looked at him, curious. “India?” Meshulam lowered his eyes “Ta… I’m not a good yeshiva bachur anymore. I’ve been hiding it from you. I don’t go to yeshiva, I don’t daven, I don’t put on tefillin. I’m finished with all of that.”

With that, he left. He went to India with friends and stayed there for years—disconnected, drifting, living without anchor.

One day, walking down a street in India, he suddenly saw someone familiar. It was a boy from his childhood in Israel. “What are you doing here?” they both asked each other, laughing awkwardly. Without missing a beat, they began catching up.

Some time into the conversation, the other young man remarked, almost casually, “I’m so sorry about what happened to your father.” Meshulam froze.  “What happened to my father?” “You don’t know? A few months ago… your father had a heart attack. He passed away.”

In that moment, Meshulam felt the weight of everything. He left and hurt his father, and he wondered if the pain caused had broken his father’s heart. “I’m going back to Eretz Yisrael,” he said. His friends were stunned. “You’re just leaving like that?” “Yes,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

When he arrived in Eretz Yisrael, he went straight to the Kosel. Standing there, broken, he took out a small piece of paper and wrote:

“Please, father, forgive me. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done. I want to come back. Please forgive me.”

He folded the note and placed it between the stones. But it fell out. He tried again, in a different crevice. It too fell out again. So many notes stay wedged in those ancient stones, but his kept falling to the ground. Desperate, he climbed onto a chair and found a higher crevice. He pushed the paper in firmly. This time, it stayed.

But as he pressed it in, another note fell out from above, and he climbed down and picked it up. It was slightly open. Glancing at the handwriting, and his heart skipped. He recognized it. It was his father’s handwriting.

Hands trembling, he unfolded it. And there, he read:

“My dear son Meshulam,

I love you. Wherever you are, whatever you do, I forgive you. However far you may end up, my arms are open for you to return. I forgive you for anything you might have done.

Your loving father.”

Meshulam broke down. He had come to ask forgiveness, and Hashem placed forgiveness in his hands.

Sometimes we fall and sometimes we drift. Sometimes we do things we never thought we would do. And then the yetzer hara whispers, “You’ve gone too far. Hashem doesn’t want you anymore.”

That voice is false. The Pasuk says, “Sheva yipol tzaddik v’kam—A righteous person falls seven times and rises” (Mishlei 24:16).

Chazal moreover have coined the phrase: “Yi’ush shelo midaas.” While technically this phrase refers to the halachic implications of giving up hope when you lost something without knowledge of the lost item’s whereabouts (Bava Metzia 21b), there is another way to read these words. Yiush shelo midaas—giving up hope without reason is irrational. There is no reason to despair because Hashem’s arms are always open.

Pesach is a time of renewal. A time when slaves became free and when the broken became a nation. No matter what we have done, no matter how far we feel we have drifted, Hashem waits for us with open arms, like a loving father.

If you ever forget, just remember Meshulam.

Rabbi Yaakov Mizrahi

But upon the nation [of Egypt] I will judge, and afterwards, they shall leave with great wealth… (Maggid)

There was a simple man known in town as Chatzkel the Smith during the times of Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev.

When Chatzkel passed away, the entire town was shocked to see that the great Rav Levi Yitzchak himself was attending the funeral. People were confused as Chatzkel was a simple blacksmith. Why was the Rebbe personally going? At the funeral, Rav Levi Yitzchak explained by relating three stories.

There once was a wealthy man in town who lost everything. Embarrassed to admit his situation publicly, he quietly approached Chatzkel for a loan. Chatzkel agreed but said, “We need a co-signer.” The man pleaded, “I’m too ashamed. Let’s make Hashem the co-signer.” Chatzkel agreed and they wrote a document that Hashem would guarantee repayment within two months.

Two months passed, and the man did not repay. But Chatzkel never summoned him to Beis Din.

A year later, the man returned with the full sum. “I’ve come to repay my debt,” he said. “You owe me nothing,” Chatzkel replied. “The co-signer already paid.” “What do you mean?” “Hashem paid me back,” said Chatzkel. Hearing that, the man began arguing. “I owe you!” “No, you don’t!” shot back Chatzkel. “Yes, I do!” “No, you don’t!”

So they went to Beis Din. Rav Levi Yitzchak watched this unbelievable case unfold of two Jews fighting that each one should pay the other! At the end, they agreed to give the money to tzedakah.

Rav Levi Yitzchak then began relating a second story.

Chatzkel once stood in a store when a customer dropped two hundred rubles without noticing, whereupon the merchant secretly pocketed it. Later, the man returned looking for his lost money.  “Did anyone find two hundred rubles?” he asked. The merchant denied it. Chatzkel, who had seen everything, approached the man.

“How much did you lose?” “Two hundred rubles,” he replied. Chatzkel reached into his own pocket and handed him two hundred rubles. “Here is your money.”

The merchant was shaken, and later, went to Chatzkel. “You didn’t find it; I did. And you knew that. Here is the two hundred rubles.” Chatzkel refused. “You owe me nothing.” “Yes I do!” “No you don’t!”

Again, Beis Din. Again, Rav Levi Yitzchak saw two Jews arguing over who owes whom. And again, the money went to tzedakah.

Rav Levi Yitzchak then began relating the final and third story.

A man in town married, but could not support his wife. He told her before leaving on a business trip, “Chatzkel owes me money. Go collect half a ruble every week.”

It was a lie. She innocently approached Chatzkel, who immediately understood what had happened. Without embarrassing her, he began giving her half a ruble weekly and even adding extra before Shabbos.

Years passed and the husband returned, expecting disaster. Instead, he found his wife financially stable. She showed him her careful accounting, instantly mortifying her husband, who realized what he had done. He ran to Chatzkel to repay him.

“You owe me nothing,” Chatzkel insisted. “Yes I do!” “No you don’t!”

Again, Beis Din. Again, Rav Levi Yitzchak saw the same “fight.” Again, the money went to tzedakah.

Now, at the funeral, Rav Levi Yitzchak said: “Now you know why I came. Look at the straightness and integrity of this man. Look at his emunah in matters of money.”

Chazal teach that after 120 years, one of the first questions a person is asked is, “Nasata v’nasata b’emunah—Were you honest in business?” (Shabbos 31a). Chatzkel the Smith was not a scholar nor was he famous. But in monetary dealings, where temptation is real and rationalization is easy, he was yashar. Straight and pure.

That is greatness.

And that is why Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev followed him to his final resting place.

The wealth the Egyptians gave the Jews was Divinely orchestrated, in fulfillment of Hashem’s promise to Avraham that his descendants would be enslaved, but would eventually leave Egypt with great wealth (Bereishis 15:14; see Berachos 9a-b). Money is a gift G-d grants to us and we are to use it honestly and honorably.

Because when we do, it not only benefits us in this world. It benefits us in the Next.

Rabbi Tzvi Sytner

With few people, as it is written (Devarim 10:22), with seventy souls your forefathers descended to Egypt…

It was a trip to Israel with a nice group of boys. And yet, although there were a large number of attendees, the goal was always to keep it close-knit. Each bus, therefore, had a leader whose role was to create achdus and bring the boys together, breaking down the invisible walls between Jews from different cities, backgrounds and cultures.

One year, I was the bus leader for a group of about fifty guys. This was not my first trip of this kind, and most often, I would stand up with the microphone and say: “Guys, we’ve come from different parts of the world and different backgrounds. Let’s break down the walls. Come up, one by one and tell us who you are, where you’re from and why you’re here in Eretz Yisrael.”

Usually, it was incredibly powerful. Guys would get up, share their struggles, their journeys, and sometimes cry. It set the tone for the entire trip. This particular year, though, I made my speech… and silence. I tried again. “Come on, who wants to go first?”

Nothing. It turned out that most of the bus was Spanish-speaking. They simply didn’t understand what I was saying. Now what? We had guys from Toronto, some from the U.S., and many from Mexico and other Spanish-speaking communities. The walls felt thicker than ever. So I tried something different.

I turned to one of the guys and asked, “What’s your name?” “Pablo,” he said in accented English. “Where are you from?” “Mexico.” “Okay, Pablo,” I said. “You’re from Mexico. I’m from Toronto. How tall are you?”

“Six-five,” he said. I knew what my next words were. “I’m five-two. You’re Sephardi and I’m Ashkenazi. You eat burritos and I eat gefilte fish. You play soccer and I teach students. We have nothing in common.” The boys on the bus let out a chuckle.

Then I asked him, “Where’s your grandmother from?” “Poland.” “Where in Poland?” I pressed further. “Lodz,” he said. I paused. I hadn’t expected that. “Mine too,” I said.

And then I looked back at him. “It could be our grandmothers were neighbors in Lodz, cooking together and speaking Yiddish to one another. The only difference between you and me is which boat they got on. Your grandmother’s boat landed near Mexico and mine landed at Ellis Island.” All eyes and ears at this point were on Pablo and me.

“One family,” I said. “Different boats.”

After that, one by one, the boys began coming up to the microphone. And at that point, even when the stories were in Spanish, the English speakers were crying, and even when the stories were in English, the Spanish speakers were moved. The language may have been different, but the heart was the same.

A few days later, it was Friday night in Yerushalayim. We had davened at the Kotel, had a beautiful meal, and then I said, “We’re going to walk to Meah Shearim to see a chassidishe tish.”

It was close to midnight, as we walked through the dark alleyways. Until we heard it. Singing. “Listen,” I told the boys. “That’s what happens on Friday night in Jewish homes. We sing.” Then I said something bold. “If I knock on their door, they’ll let us in.” The Toronto guys said, “That’s rude.” The Spanish guys said, “Do it!”

So I knocked.

A young chassid with long peyos answered and I explained who we were. He closed the door. A minute later he opened it and said, “The Tata says you can come in.” We squeezed twenty-five guys into a tiny apartment. At the head of the table sat the Dayan of Toldos Aharon, with a long white beard, surrounded by sons, sons-in-law, and chassidim.

“You want us to sing?” he asked. We all nodded. And so, they began. They sang one niggun over and over.

When we left and stood outside in the streets of Meah Shearim, I asked them, “Do you know what we just sang?” They had no idea.  “It’s normal to sing zemiros on Friday night, but not that niggun. That was Ani Ma’amin bevias haMashiach—I believe in the coming of Mashiach.” And then I told them the story.

Rabbi Azriel David Fastag composed that melody in a cattle car on the way to a concentration camp. Packed with Jews facing death, he began singing until the whole cattle car joined in. He declared that whoever could bring the niggun to the Modzitzer Rebbe would receive half his share in the World to Come. Two young men jumped from the train, one ended up dying, and the other survived and delivered the melody. And to that, the Rebbe said, “With this niggun they went to the camps, and with this niggun we will greet Mashiach.

“Maybe that’s why he chose that tune tonight,” I said, turning to the boys. Here we were: Sephardi and Ashkenazi, Mexican and Canadian, Chassidish and Yeshivish. Different languages,  different foods, different accents. But one melody. One story. One people. We may have boarded different boats, we may look different, and we may speak different languages. But we stood at Har Sinai as one person with one heart.

And that is who we are.

One family.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

They were a nation there—this teaches that the Jewish people were distinctive there (Maggid)

Every single day we say the words as part of Ashrei in davening: “Dor l’dor yeshabach ma’asecha, u’gevurosecha yagidu—Each generation will praise Your deeds, and they will tell over Your might” (Tehillim 145:4).

We are commanded to speak about the wonders of Hashem, to tell the stories, and to share the miracles. We do this to magnify kavod Shamayim, the honor due Hashem, in this world. And on the night of Pesach, this goal reaches its crescendo.

I will never forget the phone call I received one evening. A young woman was on the line, her voice trembling. “Rebbe, am I allowed to accept a present from a non-Jew?” I explained to her the halachic parameters regarding gifts. But I felt there was something behind her question. Normally, when someone asks a shailah, you don’t probe further and you respect their privacy.

But this time, I asked. “How did this gift come about?”

She explained that she worked in an office with a non-Jewish colleague, and one evening they had to stay late to complete a project together. He went out to get dinner and asked if she wanted anything. She declined. He returned with a full dinner for her—from a glatt kosher restaurant.

She felt embarrassed to refuse, and so they ate and they spoke. The conversations continued over the next days. Then one day he came in with a present. “For our friendship,” he said. She was shocked and confused, even frightened by what it might mean.

“Rebbe, what should I do?” she asked. I told her, “Bring me the gift. Tonight.” I was firm that she needed to bring it tonight without any further delay. But, as she quickly explained, at that late hour, she would need her father to drive her.

“Then bring it tomorrow morning,” I conceded. “But tonight, take it out of your house. Put it in the backyard.” “Rebbe, someone might steal it!” “No, no,” I reassured. “There will be excellent protection. The Satan will guard it all night. He will make sure no one steals the nisayon. He wants it waiting for you.”

At seven the next morning, after I davened at neitz, she walked into my office, tears flowing. She gently placed the gift on my desk.

It was a gold heart. A beautiful piece of jewelry.

“This heart will go to a poor chassan,” I told her, “who cannot afford to buy a gift for his kallah.”

But then I said something more important. “You cannot go back to that office. The nisayon is too great. We daven every morning, ‘Al tevi’eini lo lidei nisayon—Do not bring me to a test.’ You cannot stand in fire daily and assume you will not burn.”

Baruch Hashem, she accepted the challenge with strength and dignity and quit her job.

I later shared this story publicly. My heart was pounding as I spoke, as I thought to myself what could have happened to a bas Yisrael had she not had the courage to call me that night and be honest? Stories to Inspire later shared the story and it quickly circulated around. Not long thereafter, as I exited a shul one day, a young man stopped me. “I heard that story,” he said. “The same thing happened to me.”

A girl had given him a present, and he felt his heart shifting and an attachment forming. He was heading in a direction he knew would pull him away from his family, his community, and ultimately, from the Ribbono Shel Olam. He removed the necklace from around his neck and handed it to me.

“I don’t want it to own me,” he said.

I did not give either of these necklaces themselves to anyone. The source must be pure. Instead, I gave money earned from selling the necklace to a poor kallah, and from the heart, I gave money to a poor chassan.

Dor l’dor yeshabach ma’asecha. This is how Hashem’s might is told over, from story to story, from heart to heart.

The night of Pesach affords us the opportunity to share our story as a nation, wherein we stayed true to our values and did not budge. We did not change our names, our clothing or our language, our Sages teach (see Vayikra Rabbah 32:5). We stayed strong in the face of assimilation, knowing deep down that our greatest and only loyalty belonged to Hashem, the G-d of our forefathers. When we remembered that, we paved the way for our redemption.

Each and every generation, we have that same opportunity. No matter what we have done, the moment we say, “I’m done, I’m starting a new chapter, I don’t want it to own me,” we leave the chains of Egypt and enter our destiny as a freed Jew.

Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt”l

And [Egypt] afflicted us, as it says, “They set taskmasters over them in order to oppress them with their burdens…” (Maggid)

There was a boy who was falling apart. Anxious, depressed and overwhelmed, he came to his Rebbe and said, “I’m not okay. I’m anxious all the time and I feel depressed. I don’t know what to do anymore. I need help.” “Come to my house,” said the Rebbe.

The boy assumed they would go into the study, his Rebbe would open a sefer, and quote a comment of the Rambam or share with him an encouraging Torah thought. But instead, when he arrived, the Rebbe said, “Come to the kitchen.” The boy followed him in, curiously.

The Rebbe proceeded to take out three pots and fill them with water. He then put them on the stove and turned on the fire, the water beginning to boil shortly thereafter. The boy sat there, unsure what was going on, wondering where his Rebbe was going with all this.

Next, the Rebbe peeled a potato and held it up. “You see this potato?” He dropped it into the first pot of boiling water.

Then he took out a raw egg. “You see this egg?” He spun it on the counter to show him it was raw. In yeshiva, they used to spin eggs to know whether they were hard-boiled or raw, because sometimes the kitchen would mix them up. If it wobbled, it was raw. If it spun smoothly, it was hard. This one wobbled. He placed it into the second pot.

He then took a handful of coffee grounds and poured them into the third pot of boiling water. He finally covered all three pots and said, “Sit down. Give it a little time.” Half an hour later, he uncovered the first pot. He took out the potato and stuck a fork into it. It was mush.

He uncovered the second pot and took out the egg. He peeled it and cut it open. The inside, once soft, was now hard. Then he uncovered the third pot. The room filled with the rich aroma of coffee. He poured a cup and handed it to the boy to smell.

“Rebbe, what does this have to do with me?” asked the boy, exasperated at this point. “Listen carefully,” replied the Rebbe. “There are three kinds of people in this world.

“The first one is like the potato. On the outside he’s strong, tough and confident. He gives everyone advice. ‘Don’t worry, Hashem will help you. You’ll be fine.’ He seems solid. But when you put him into boiling water, when real hardship hits, when he has real difficulties, he collapses. The strong potato becomes mush. Don’t become that person.

“The second person is like the egg. Soft-hearted, kind and sensitive. Always helping and always there for others. But when you put him into boiling water, when pressure comes, he hardens. He closes off. ‘I can’t deal with anyone. I have my own problems.’ The soft center becomes rigid and cold. Don’t become that person either.

“Now look at the third pot. The coffee didn’t let the boiling water change it. It changed the water. It transformed it. It took something bitter and released a wonderful aroma. It turned water into something delicious.

“In the first two pots, the hot water changed the object, but in the third pot, the object changed the water.

“When you go through hard times in life, don’t let the hard times change you. Don’t become mush and don’t become hardened. Don’t let it change you. Change it. Change the water. Take the heat and turn it into something that spreads warmth and fragrance.”

The Rebbe looked at the boy and concluded his message. “That is your job. Do not let the world define you. Do not let pressure dictate who you become. You have the power to transform your problem; not the other way around.”

That is the challenge for all of us. The world is boiling and there is pressure, noise and confusion. You can let it make you soft and collapse, or you can let it make you hard and closed. Or you can decide that wherever you are placed, you will elevate your life’s circumstances.

Be the third pot. Don’t let the world change you.

Change the world.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

We cried out to Hashem, the G-d of our fathers, and Hashem heard our voice…

It is often thought that the reason we wash before Karpas is simple. We are eating a vegetable dipped in liquid, and as the Mishnah Berurah rules (Orach Chaim 473:51), one must wash before eating something dipped in one of the seven liquids (see Pesachim 115a). Even though there is discussion as to whether that applies when eating less than a kezayis and one might not strictly be required to wash, on the night of Pesach we do so anyway because of the night’s elevated and endeared stature (Levush, 473:6). Others (see Shaar Hatziyun, ibid.; Aruch HaShulchan, Orach Chaim 473:18) explain that the washing is meant to provoke the children to ask questions.

Those are the standard explanations.

But the Darkei Moshe (Orach Chaim 473) offers a remarkable insight. He writes that perhaps the reason for washing before Karpas is because saying the Haggadah is like tefillah. We are recounting the praise of Hashem, and therefore it requires washing the hands just as one washes before prayer.

This opens an entirely new dimension to the Haggadah. One might have thought that the Haggadah is simply sippur yetzias Mitzrayim, the mitzvah of telling over the wonders of Hashem. But the Darkei Moshe is classifying it as tefillah.

This perspective fits well with many Rishonim. Shortly after Maggid begins, we say, “Baruch HaMakom.” Several Rishonim, including the Shibolei HaLeket, the Ritva and the Rabbeinu Yeshaya, understand this as a form of Birchas HaTorah, since we are about to expound Pesukim. Again, we see that the Haggadah contains not only narration, but an element of avodah and tefillah.

The Gemara (Pesachim 116a) says that after pouring the second cup, “Kan haben sho’el—Here the son asks.” Many Sifrei Chassidus (e.g. Satmar Rebbe) note the play on words: “Kan ha’ben sho’el—Here the son asks.” This is a unique moment of the year when a Jew, as a child of Hashem, can ask for all of his or her needs. Why though specifically here, in the middle of the Haggadah?

If the Haggadah is classified as tefillah, it becomes understandable. Perhaps there is not only sippur and shevach, recounting the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim and praising Hashem, but also bakashah (making requests) woven into the night.

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh, on the words “V’higadeta le’bincha bayom hahu leimor—And you shall tell your son on that day, saying” (Shemos 13:8) asks why the word “leimor,” saying, is necessary. It would seem to be superfluous. He explains, based on the Gemara (Pesachim 116a), that even if one does not have a son, he must recount the story to himself. It must be verbalized. From where do we learn that? From “leimor.” It must be said aloud.

He then adds an extraordinary thought. Perhaps by fulfilling “leimor”—by recounting the story of the exile and exodus of Egypt—even when one has no son, it will serve as a zechus that he merit a child. The night of the Seder is mesugal for tefillah to be answered.

Rabbi Eliyahu Guttmacher addressed this in a drashah in 1912. He asked a striking question about Megillas Esther. Haman’s decree was issued on the thirteenth of Nisan and was set to take effect eleven months later. But if so, Mordechai and Esther had ample time to fast and daven. Why choose to fast specifically on Pesach, as Chazal teach they did (see Esther 4:17; Targum and Rashi, ad loc.; Pirkei D’Rebbi Eliezer 50)? Pesach is the one night of the year when there is a mitzvas aseh d’Oraisa, positive Torah injunction, to eat matzah. Why forgo such a central mitzvah?

Rabbi Guttmacher answered that the koach hatefillah of Pesach is so powerful that they could not allow it to pass. Since Pesach is a time of nissim, and the Jewish calendar is a living calendar, the miraculous energy of that time reawakens each year. They needed Pesach-like tefillos.

The climax of that tefillah is not merely the declaration of hope, but the prayer, “L’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim.” It is not a slogan. It is a tefillah.

The Baal HaNesivos (sefer Maaseh Nissim) explains the phrase in the Haggadah, “Kefulah u’mechupeles—[How much more so should we grateful to Hashem for the miracles Hashem] wrought doubly upon us.” The miracles of Yetzias Mitzrayim were doubled because they were not only salvation then, but rehearsal for the ultimate redemption. The events of Mitzrayim were a prototype, a preparation for the coming of Mashiach. As the Pasuk says, “Kimei tzeischa me’eretz Mitzrayim ar’enu niflaos—Just as went you left Egypt, you will see wonders in the future with Mashiach” (Michah 7:15). The redemption from Egypt contains within it the seed of the future redemption.

May our tefillos on this Pesach pierce the heavens, and may the power of this night bring us to the ultimate geulah.

Rabbi Fischel Schachter

And Hashem heard our cry, as it says… “And G-d remembered His covenant with Avraham, with Yitzchak and with Yaakov.”

There was one couple in Yerushalayim expecting the birth of their child. And, as seems almost customary in such stories, the baby chose to arrive just minutes before Shabbos.

The father stood in the hospital corridor, torn between two responsibilities. On the one hand, his wife was in labor; on the other, he needed to return to Beitar before Shabbos to be with the other children at home. The clock was ticking, the tension palpable.

His wife urged him gently but firmly: “Go; I am in good hands. The doctors and nurses are here. Go home to the children.” Reluctantly, he agreed. As he waited for word before departing, a nurse came rushing out, calling joyfully, “Mazel tov! Mazel tov!” “What is it?” he asked breathlessly. “Yalda!” she replied. He understood the word to mean “a girl.” Satisfied, he hurried home in time for Shabbos.

That afternoon, he made a modest kiddush in honor of the birth. The couple had already decided that if the child were a girl, her name would be Rivka. Accordingly, the baby was named Rivka.

When Shabbos concluded, the mother called from the hospital. The children gathered around the phone, excitedly repeating “Mazel tov!” After exchanging greetings, she asked casually, “So, how was the Shalom Zachar?” The husband paused. “What Shalom Zachar?” “It’s a boy,” she replied.

Silence.

It turned out that his Hebrew had failed him at a critical moment. There is an implied difference between “yalda,” as meaning ‘a girl,’ and “yalda” as ‘gave birth.’ The nurse had meant only that the baby had been born. He had heard that it was a girl.

And so they now had a son named Rivka.

One can imagine the future complications. “Ya’amod… Rivka…” when being called to the Torah. A tefillin bag embroidered with the name Rivka. In cheder, explanations would be required daily.

The parents went to consult Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv zt”l as how to correct the situation. Rav Elyashiv advised that the name be changed to Yitzchak. After all, Yitzchak was Rivka’s husband, and as Chazal teach, ishto k’gufo, a husband and wife are intrinsically connected (Berachos 24a). The father, though, was unsettled. “We had planned that if it were a boy, his name would be Asher Zelig!”

Someone, however, reassured him. “The child’s name was meant to be Yitzchak. That is precisely why Heaven arranged matters as it did. It was so that you would believe it was a girl and name him Rivka, and only afterward would it become clear that the true name must be Yitzchak.”

Nothing in life random. What appeared to be a mistake was, in fact, part of a larger design. The name unfolded in stages, but it was guided all along.

G-d always has a plan. And He always remembers and always delivers.

Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

With signs—this refers to the staff…

In Parshas Va’eira, Hashem tells Moshe in reference to the first plague of Blood: “Tell Aaron, take your staff and stretch it over the waters of Egypt” (Shemos 7:19). Grammatically, there are two ways to understand this Pasuk. It could mean, “Tell Aaron to take your—Moshe’s—staff.” Or it could mean, “Tell Aaron to take your—Aharon’s—own staff.” Whose staff is it?

The question is not trivial. In Pirkei Avos (5:6), we are taught that ten things were created on the sixth day of creation bein ha’shmashos, at twilight, and one of them was the staff of Moshe Rabbeinu. Yet the Gemara (Pesachim 54a) speaks about the staff of Aharon being created at twilight too. So did Moshe have a staff or did Aharon have a staff?

It appears that each of them possessed a staff. One might say they were the “Joint chiefs of staff,” but there is a profound distinction between the two.

The Kli Yakar offers a remarkable insight. Although Moshe’s staff had a more illustrious lineage—according to the Midrash, it originated in Gan Eden and was passed down from Adam through the generations, taken by Noach onto the Teivah, and later embedded in Yisro’s garden where none could remove it until Moshe drew it forth (Pirkei D’Rebbi Eliezer 40)— nevertheless, Aharon’s staff displayed a different kind of power.

When Aharon extended his staff, all the waters of Egypt turned to blood, including the canals, the lakes, the reservoirs, and even the water contained in jars and vessels within Egyptian homes (Shemos 7:19). The scope of Aharon’s staff was more expansive and the effect was more severe.

Why the distinction?

The Kli Yakar explains that Moshe’s staff was primarily intended for Bnei Yisrael. In the Haggadah we state, “The signs—this refers to the staff.” The staff was a sign for the Jewish people. It was the staff of leadership—the shepherd’s rod—and was meant to guide, protect and direct the Jewish nation.

Aharon’s staff, by contrast, was the instrument of judgment against Pharaoh. The Midrash compares the wicked to a dog (Shemos Rabbah 9:2), and when confronting a dangerous dog, one requires a firm and forceful stick. Aharon’s role in the plagues was to demonstrate Hashem’s authority with unmistakable power.

This distinction is further reflected in the transformation of the staff. When Moshe cast down his staff, it became a snake (Shemos 4:3). When Aharon cast down his staff before Pharaoh, however, it became a tanin—understood by many as a crocodile (ibid. 7:10)—a far more fearsome creature. The symbolism is deliberate: Moshe’s staff reassures and leads, while Aharon’s subdues and overpowers.

The Pasuk tells us, “One who spares the rod hates his child” (Mishlei 13:24), but the rod itself can serve different purposes. There is a rod used to discipline harshly, and there is the shepherd’s staff, with its crook designed to gently draw a wandering sheep back to the path. The very expression “by hook or by crook” derives from that shepherd’s instrument, as it is used not to injure, but to quietly guide and retrieve.

Each of us, in some capacity, carries a staff. Parents, teachers, leaders, and communal figures all wield influence. And while strength and firmness are sometimes necessary, the default posture must be that of the shepherd. The purpose of authority is not to intimidate, but to lead; not to crush, but to restore.

Recall the well-known phrase of Theodore Roosevelt: “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” In Torah terms, when leading our Jewish brothers and sisters, we ought to carry a staff, most certainly, but ensure it is the staff of a shepherd, guiding others back to where they belong, rather than the stick used to beat away a threat.

That is the enduring lesson of the two staffs, and the responsibility inherent in holding one.

Rabbi Benzion Klatzko

Blood, Frogs, Lice…

If someone would ask, “How do you build real love?” we would likely conclude that the following components are at least some of the essential ingredients.

Step 1: Respect

Don’t jump straight to love. The first foundation is respect. Before affection, before romance, before emotional investment, ask: What is it about this person that is worthy of love?

Are they principled? Are they honest? Are they thoughtful? Are they G-d fearing? Do they have integrity, self-control and compassion? Love that lasts is built on admiration. You cannot skip respect and leap into love. That is one of the reasons why Torah Judaism is careful with its dating culture, especially at young ages. Emotion without respect is fragile, and while it may feel intense, it doesn’t endure.

To borrow a secular example, imagine if Albert Einstein’s wife said, “Science, schmience, I don’t know what any of that is.” Is that love? It might be attraction, but it isn’t the kind of love that builds a life. To love a person, you must first recognize their unique qualities, whatever that may be. That is why shidduchim involve inquiry. You learn who the person is, including their values, goals, character and aspirations. Respect comes first.

Step 2: Love

Once respect exists, love becomes possible. Love is the decision to leap and say: “I’m not just evaluating you. I choose you.” It is declarative commitment.

Step 3: Trust

And then comes the great challenge of every relationship: trust. Once I love you, I want to ensure you won’t betray me.

This is where most couples struggle, again and again. Trust is tested in the little moments. If he forgot the milk, is it because he doesn’t care—or because he forgot? If she forgot his birthday, is it betrayal—or forgetfulness? If something went wrong, can I still trust the love beneath the mistake?

Marriage, at its core, is a lifelong training in trust. The steps therefore are: respect followed by love and then followed by trust.

We are in a relationship with Hashem. And if relationships follow a pattern, then our relationship with Hashem follows the same pattern. We begin with respect: recognizing Hashem’s greatness. Then comes love: embracing Him and choosing Him. And finally comes trust: emunah, or placing ourselves in His hands, even when life is confusing.

Once we consider this, we’ll notice something astonishing: This exact pattern is built into davening. Look at Maariv, for example.

The first beracha is cosmic awe: “Hashem turns day to night, arranges the stars in their order in the Heavens according to His will.” It’s not “I love You” yet. It’s “I respect You.” It’s reverence. Next comes the following beracha: “Ahavas Olam,” wherein we highlight Hashem’s love for us. We then respond with Shema and recite “V’ahavta…” Now we love Him. Immediately afterward comes, “V’ emunah kol zos” in which we declare our trust in G-d. There is the pattern again: Respect, love and then trust. You can find the same structure in Shacharis and even in Shemoneh Esrei if you look carefully. The siddur is teaching you how relationships work.

Once you understand those three steps, Pesach becomes illuminated. The story of Yetzias Mitzrayim is not only national liberation, but the birth of a relationship.

The first nine makkos were about respect. They were Hashem’s demonstration that He rules over everything: water, earth, air, the Nile, the dust, the animals and the cosmos itself. The first nine makkos were Hashem teaching Egypt and us Who He is. That is respect.

The comes the last plague, and it is a different kind. Makkas Bechoros is the moment of love and choosing. It is Hashem saying, “I choose you,” and Klal Yisrael saying in return, “We choose You.”

That is why this makkah had to touch every Egyptian household. “There was no home which did not have a dead body” (Shemos 12:30).If there would have been even one untouched home, the Egyptians would have claimed: “Hashem chose us too.” But this was a moment of separation: chosen and not chosen.

And how did we express our choosing? We took a lamb—Egypt’s deity—and slaughtered it. We declared that we reject every false god and competing loyalty. We chose Hashem. And Hashem responded by carrying out the Plague of the Firstborn Himself, as we read in the Haggadah: “I and not an angel or seraph or messenger.” Hashem did not outsource the final plague’s bidding because love is personal.

So we now have respect and love. But what was missing?

Trust.

And this is where Klal Yisrael struggled again and again. When they left Egypt, there was still a safety net and some part of them believed, “If it gets hard, we can always go back.” So Hashem removed the safety net.

That is why He allowed Pharoah to chase the Jewish people and placed them with the Red Sea in front and Egypt behind. Now there was no return, no backup plan and no escape route. And for the first time the Torah says: “Vaya’aminu b’Hashem u’Moshe avdo—They believed in Hashem and Moshe, His servant” (Shemos 14:31). Now they trusted.

That is Pesach, and ultimately, life every day. A real, genuine relationship with Hashem.

Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling

How many favors has the Omnipresent bestowed upon us (Maggid)

Years ago, when I was living in Eretz Yisrael, my wife traveled to America for a wedding. The result was that I was left on full father-duty, including school drop-offs and pick-ups. The whole schedule.

One weekday afternoon, I was sitting in someone’s house around 1:30 and it was raining heavily. We were catching up, learning and talking, when suddenly, his wife walked in and asked if he could pick up some yogurt from the store. She was aiming for a healthier diet and my friend had forgotten to swing by the store yesterday.

“Let’s go,” I said, offering to lend him a lift. “I have a car.” He hesitated. “It’s raining.” “That’s exactly why we’ll take the car,” I said, solution in hand.

As I said that, I reached into my pocket for my phone and car keys. But I felt nothing. No phone, no keys. Very unusual for me. “Let’s walk to my apartment,” I quickly said. “I’ll grab my keys and phone, and then we’ll head out.” So we began walking. By then, it was about 2:15 p.m.

But as I approached my building, a small child was standing outside, looking nervous, trying to speak quickly in Hebrew. Suddenly it hit me. Rosh Chodesh. On Rosh Chodesh, school ended early—1:30 instead of the usual time.

My son.

He had been dropped off at the corner forty-five minutes earlier. And I forgot. My wife wasn’t home and it was my responsibility. I had never been the 1:30 parent before; it just didn’t register. I ran up four flights of stairs faster than I ever have in my life.

On my floor, Arab workers were doing construction that week. One large worker stood near my neighbor’s door, holding a heavy metal scraping tool in one hand and a hammer in the other. And there was my son, standing outside our door. Alone. I was shaking, not from running, but from the realization of what could have been.

Now think about this.

If his wife had not been trying to eat healthier… If the yogurt hadn’t run out… If he had bought it the day before… If it wasn’t raining… If I had my keys on me… If I had my phone… If I had continued talking another hour… I would not have gone home at that moment. And who knows what might have happened. I don’t even want to imagine.

That day, I saw it clearly. The Ribbono Shel Olam arranged every detail. The diet, the forgotten yogurt, the rain, my missing keys, my missing phone, the timing. It wasn’t random. Hashem wanted me home then.

We often don’t see it. Most of the time, we live inside the puzzle without seeing the picture. Only after one hundred and twenty years, we will look back and stand in awe. “You were running everything,” we will say to Hashem.

But once in a while, Hashem gives you a glimpse. A rainy day that saves a life. A missed bus that prevents an accident. A broken appliance that delays a trip.

We complain about the gray sky, but we don’t always realize that the gray sky is protecting us. It’s akin to a child in surgery, screaming, “Daddy, I thought you loved me! Why are you letting them cut me?” And the father whispers, “It’s to save you.”

Sometimes we understand, yet often we don’t. But the message is the same: Hashem is arranging details we cannot even begin to comprehend. You cry when it hurts, because that’s human and that’s real. But don’t forget the deeper truth. The Creator of the World is involved in every rainstorm of your life.

And He loves you, very dearly.

Rabbi Yoel Gold

R’ Gamliel used to say: Whoever has not explained these three things on Pesach has not fulfilled his obligation, namely: Pesach, Matzah and Maror.

One Shabbos afternoon years ago, I was walking home from shul with my ten-year-old son. The walk is only a few blocks, but to me it is a special opportunity when we can talk, laugh and connect and I can be fully present with him.

As we began walking and settling into conversation, a man across the street noticed me and called out enthusiastically. He was visiting from New York and was genuinely excited to see me. “Rabbi Gold! Rabbi Gold!” he exclaimed as he hurried over. He happened to be heading in the same direction, and before long, he joined us.

I tried to be polite, but inwardly, I felt the minutes slipping away. The precious time I had been anticipating with my son was being consumed. I didn’t have the heart to say, “I’m sorry, I’m spending time with my son.” So instead, I devised what I thought was a subtle solution. When we’d reach the corner, I would simply turn the opposite direction and gently disengage.

When we arrived at the intersection, though, he turned right, precisely the direction I normally would have gone toward home. So I said, “Wonderful seeing you. We’re actually going to make a left here. Safe travels, and only good news.”

Just as I was about to part ways, my son tugged at me and said loudly, “Dad, we’re supposed to go right. That’s the way home.”

My carefully constructed plan unraveled instantly.

I tried to recover. “Oh, I was just thinking of taking a small detour,” but the visitor smiled and continued walking with us. He remained by my side until we reached our house. My son and I ended up barely speaking spoke the entire walk.

Later that evening at the dinner table, I retold the story and explained to my son what I had been trying to do. He burst out laughing. “Dad, I had no idea!”

And then it struck me.

The Pasuk says, in context of the Jewish people leaving Egypt: “Hashem did not lead them by way of the Pelishtim, because it was close” (Shemos 13:17).

The simple reading is geographical. The route from Egypt to the Land of Israel was shorter by way of the Pelishtim’s territory. The problem was that it was dangerous. But the DaasZekenim offers a different reading. “Ki karov Hu” means, “Because He—Hashem—was close.” Hashem felt close to us and He wanted relationship.

So He took us on a detour. We didn’t travel the shortest or most efficient path. We traveled via the route that would allow for closeness. In our ups and downs through the desert, through the manna, through the well of Miriam, through Har Sinai, we forged an unbreakable bond with Hashem. And that is exactly what He wanted.

Hashem was saying, “Don’t make the right turn with everyone else. Come with Me. Let’s take a left. I want time alone with you.” And what do we often do as human beings? We protest. “Hashem, this isn’t the way home. Everyone else is going right!”

We do not see the Heavenly calculation. We don’t understand the detour. And yet, sometimes, the detour is not punishment, but an invitation for closeness.

“Ki karov Hu.” Because He is close.

At the Seder, we are taught that we must articulate three central elements: Pesach, Matzah, and Maror. Yet chronologically, Maror came first. The bitterness preceded redemption. So why is Maror mentioned last?

The commentaries explain something profound. We can only truly understand bitterness in hindsight. When redemption unfolds, when clarity emerges, we can look back and say, “Ah, even the Maror was part of the plan.” In the moment of bitterness, we cannot celebrate it. Only later can we perceive its place in the larger story.

I often say that stories inspire people, but challenges transform people. Experience changes us in ways that words alone cannot. The word “challenge,” no less, contains within it the word “change.” Growth is not born from comfort, but forged in difficulty.

Right now, the world is experiencing detours and no one fully understands the reasons. But perhaps we can take comfort in knowing that in the midst of the challenge, there is closeness. And perhaps one day, when Pesach and Matzah become clear in our lives, we will look back at the Maror and say… even that was leading us home.

Rabbi Yaakov Bender

Hashem passed over the homes of the Jewish people in Egypt when He struck the Egyptians and our homes He saved (Maggid)

I want to tell you a story about one word. A word that is hard to translate properly.

Bayis.

I don’t know a better way to explain it than with something that happened to me.

I was once on a plane flying back from Los Angeles. Sitting across the aisle from me was a woman in her forties who appeared like a regular, refined American woman. We started talking. I always try to say hello. On Shabbos, when I walk home with my boys, I greet people. I’ll compliment someone’s dog, and say, “Beautiful dog.” Why not? It costs nothing to be kind. So I said to her, “What do you do?”

She said she was a farmer from Topeka, Kansas.

Now, when I think of a farmer, I picture overalls and a hoe. She laughed and explained that she runs the business side of a large farming operation. Then she asked me what I do.

I told her I’m a rabbi from Far Rockaway, and we went on to have a cordial conversation. Then she asked, “When do you vacation?”

“July and August,” I said.

She smiled. “That’s when we work the hardest. We’re off in May and June. Harvest is July and August and we want the kids out of the way.”

Minutes later, the conversation quieted and I took out my Chumash to review the Parsha. I do it the way it’s mentioned in the Shulchan Aruch: each Pasuk twice, then the Targum, then Rashi (Orach Chaim 285:1-2). It takes time and it’s a serious endeavor.

After about ten minutes, I felt something. You know that feeling when someone is watching you? She was watching me.

Finally she asked, “Rabbi, what are you doing?” “This is the Bible,” I said. She told me she was Catholic. “I say each verse twice, then the translation, then the commentary.” “You do this all the time?” “Yes,” I replied. “Every week?” “Yes.” “How many weeks?” “Fifty-four Parshiyos,” I said. She then went back to her book, and I went back to mine.

A few minutes later, she said, “Rabbi, do you have Shabbat?” “Yes,” I said. “Every week?” “Yes.” “The Shabbat I know?” she asked. “What do you mean?” wondering what she meant.

She then began describing my life to me. “The husband leaves Friday night in his nice suit, and the children are dressed beautifully. They go to synagogue and the wife lights candles, alongside her daughters who are dressed nicely. They come home and they have a beautiful meal.”

I was sitting there stunned.

“You eat fish, then chicken, then potato pudding. What do you call it? Kugel. You sing songs, and the children have papers with questions. You have this every week?” “Yes,” I said, still stunned.

And then she said something I will never forget.

“Do you know how lucky you are? If we have something like that twice a year, we’re lucky. Mother’s Day, maybe Thanksgiving. We don’t know what it means to have grandparents at the table. A grandfather, a bubby, a family sitting together consistently!” I couldn’t believe how well she knew all the details and nuances of a Shabbos table. “You have that every week,” she concluded. “You are so lucky.

She wasn’t mocking. She wasn’t criticizing. She was admiring. And she put something into perspective for me in a way I had never fully appreciated.

She was describing a bayis. Not a house. A home.

She was describing what Pesach celebrates.

When the Haggadah says, “V’es bateinu hitzil— Hashem saved our homes,” it doesn’t just mean walls and roofs. It means He saved the Jewish home: the atmosphere, the table, the songs, the questions, the grandparents, the generations.

That is what we were redeemed for.

I grew up without much materially. My parents struggled and we didn’t have money and clothing was limited. But for Yom Tov, we got a new suit, and that suit meant something.

Zaidy at the table, bubby at the table, the excitement, the songs, the smell of the food, the mezuzah on the door, the tzedakah that flows from our communities, the chesed that defines us. Billions of dollars of charity today have been given to Jews from Jews because of homes. Because Jewish homes produce generosity, responsibility and continuity.

That woman from Topeka, Kansas, saw something we sometimes forget to see. We have a home. We have Shabbos. We have Pesach. We have a Seder where every child counts, where every question matters and where the youngest is center stage.

That is redemption. But not just freedom from slavery; freedom to build a home that pulsates with Torah, warmth, memory and song.

I never saw her again. I thought maybe I would meet her a year later with a tichel on her head, but no. That wasn’t the story.

The story was that for a few hours on a plane, Hashem sent me a reminder. Sometimes it takes someone from the outside to tell you what you have on the inside.

Pesach is the celebration of the Jewish home. And if we can look at our Shabbos tables, our Seder tables, our grandparents, our children asking questions, and see them with fresh eyes, then we will understand what redemption really means.

That is our home. That is our Pesach. And that is something extraordinary.

Mr. Charlie Harary

Matzah—why do we eat it? Because the dough of our forefathers did not have time to become leavened…

Judaism is not a commemorative religion. We do not perform rituals simply because something happened long ago. We are not reenacting history as nostalgia and contemplating our past as if visiting a museum exhibit.

It is a mirror.

Pesach is therefore not only about what happened in Egypt thousands of years ago. It is about what is happening in our lives today.

In Hebrew, the word Mitzrayim shares a root with meitzar, meaning narrowness and constraint. Egypt represents limitation, constriction and the feeling of being stuck. Every one of us has a Mitzrayim.

We have relationships that feel strained, habits we wish we could break, talents we have not yet fulfilled, disappointments we carry quietly, and areas where we feel incapable of growth. We long for freedom, and often, the opportunity to leave our personal Egypt appears right in front of us.

But there’s a catch. Every growth opportunity comes packaged the same way: it’s uncomfortable. Because greatness is uncomfortable. If it were easy, it wouldn’t change us. And so we hesitate and tell ourselves: “I’ll do it later… After this week… When things calm down.”

“Later” is the most brilliant strategy ever invented, because it feels responsible, but it changes nothing. Later is the first step toward never.

Matzah is not just a memorial to rushed bread. It is a philosophy. Hashem rushed the Jews out of Egypt to teach us something profound: freedom does not wait until it is convenient. Redemption does not begin when conditions are perfect. Greatness is born from acting—now.

Matzah is immediacy. Chametz is delay. Chametz waits and rises slowly, expanding and inflating over time. Matzah is simple, immediate, decisive.

Perhaps that is why matzah is the symbol of freedom. The difference between Egypt and the Promised Land is whether we engage the challenge or calling in front of us or postpone it. Whether we run toward growth or stall. Whether we say “now” or “later.”

Pesach asks us every year: Where are you constricted? What is your Mitzrayim? What opportunity is standing in front of you right now that you are tempted to postpone? Freedom is not an anniversary of the past. It is a decision in the present.

Chametz is “later.” Matzah is “now.” And the difference between a life of meaning and a life of mediocrity may be nothing more than that choice.

Rebbetzin Esti Hamilton

Not only did Hashem redeem our forefathers, but we too were redeemed with them…

Pesach can appear to become very full of mundane things.

Have I cleaned this cupboard? Did I order the chicken? What’s the best cake recipe? Did I finish that list? And the lists multiply. Before we know it, the weeks before Pesach become technical, logistical and exhausting.

What, then, is the heart of Pesach? What is the soul of Seder night?

One of my favorite places in the world is the ocean. Whenever you stare out at its vastness, something happens. You suddenly feel very small, but in a good way. The smallness dissolves the pettiness and expands the mind. It makes you think about greatness and how much larger the world is than the narrowness of our daily worries.

Now imagine I walked into this room with a cup of ocean water and said, “Right here, I have the entire ocean.” You would look at me and say, “That’s not the ocean. That’s a cup of water from the ocean. It’s a drop.” But if I took this cup to a laboratory and analyzed it, it would tell me everything about that section of ocean: its salinity, its temperature, its ecosystem. In a certain sense, that drop contains the whole ocean within it.

That is the mashal for the neshama.

Every Jewish soul is not just one small, separate being. Spiritually, we are deeply interconnected. We are not isolated drops; we are expressions of one vast ocean of Klal Yisrael. Each neshama contains within it the imprint of the whole. And because of that, because of that connectiveness, we are vast.

Seder night is one of the nights of the year when we feel that most strongly.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once said something fascinating. Statistically, today, more Jews around the world attend a Seder than observe Yom Kippur. There was a time when Yom Kippur was the day even the unaffiliated Jew would keep. But that has shifted. Today, even Jews who don’t keep Shabbos, don’t keep kosher, don’t identify as religious will say: “It’s Seder night. I need to be somewhere.” Why is that?

Rabbi Sacks observed that we are no longer a generation of guilt. We are a generation of hope. And Seder night is the night of hope. Hope in Hashem. Hope in ourselves. Hope in Klal Yisrael.

Rabbi Benjy Morgan once related the following. One year, on the second Seder night, when it was just him and his family, they were up to Ha Lachma Anya, inviting anyone who needs to come join.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. His children thought it was a magic trick and that he had staged it. He opened the door and, lo and behold, a complete stranger stood there. “I was looking for a Seder,” the man said, “and I had nowhere to go. I looked up Jewish rabbis in the area, found your address, and I walked here. May I join you?”

We are searching, especially in our generation. We are searching for connection, for meaning, for hope. Seder night answers that search. We dress in our best clothes, take out our finest dishes, and sit for hours talking about Hashem, about miracles, about our story. Where else do we do that?

Rav Dessler says that Seder night is the night we fill our cup of emunah, and the rest of the year we drink from it. There is a magic quality to this night.

One year before Pesach, I was in the car with my children, and “Uncle Moishy” started playing the iconic tune of ‘Kadesh Urchatz, Karpas Yachatz…’ I hadn’t heard it for a whole year. Suddenly, my little children in the back seat began singing along, as they had learned in school, and I was transported. Transported back to my own childhood Sedarim, with its smells and songs. And for a moment, the lists vanished. The meat order vanished. The cleaning schedule vanished.

And I thought: we’re heading toward something holy. Something ancient. Something enormous.

The night of Pesach and the story of our people.

It is the story as vast as the sea and as eternal as anything. It is the story of the Jewish people. Because we are just that: carrying the whole of Klal Yisrael within each of us and containing an eternal spark that will forever live on.

Rabbi Label Lam

He raises the poor from the dust, from the trash heaps He lifts the needy… (End of Maggid)

When I was twenty-four years old, I went to yeshiva. After a couple of years of learning, there was a large family wedding and it was to be the first time I would attend a public family event visibly transformed. I had a short black beard, a yarmulke firmly planted on my head, and tzitzis peeking out from beneath my jacket.

As I moved from room to room during the cocktail hour, greeting people I had known my entire life, something became clear. I would enter a circle of conversation and notice subtle glances exchanged. It was an unspoken signal. Conversations abruptly ended, smiles stiffened, and people excused themselves. It happened once, then again. Then again. After some time, it was not so subtle.

I understood why, at least intellectually. In psychology and in business, you learn to ask: who owns the problem? Still, it is one thing to analyze a situation and another to stand in it.

Then my Aunt Fanny called me over.

She was tiny and nearly ninety years old. She was one of my grandfather’s sisters, from that older generation born in Europe, who had seen worlds rise and fall. I bent down to hear her whispery, raspy voice.

“I want to tell you something,” she said. I thought to myself—finally, someone wants to speak to me with love and care. “Everybody thinks you’re crazy,” she said. I smiled. “Thank you, Aunt Fanny. Sharing is caring.” But she wasn’t finished. She motioned me closer. I made the strategic error of leaning in even further.

And then she said, with all the fire her small frame could hold: “But you’re doing the right thing.”

It landed like an uppercut.

In those few words, I heard far more than encouragement. I heard history speaking. I heard the echoes of Europe. I heard the pain of loss, of brothers and sisters swallowed by annihilation and assimilation. I heard the unspoken question: Who will carry us forward? Who will rebuild? Who will name the next generation? Who will ensure that the chain does not break?

“You’re doing the right thing.”

Those words gave me strength. They gave me spine. They put fiber into my soul at a moment when I did not even know how much I needed it.

Sometime after that, I was on a plane returning from Eretz Yisrael when I met a young rabbi from Binghamton who had been working in kiruv with students. “You have no idea,” he told me, “how many students on campus are walking around telling one another, ‘You’re doing the right thing.’”

The words had traveled.

Chazal teach, “Yesh koneh olamo b’sha’ah achas—A person can acquire his entire world in a single moment” (Avodah Zarah 17a). Sometimes that moment is created by a few sincere words. We underestimate the power of encouragement, not always realizing that a few words can redirect a life, steady a wavering heart, or ignite a future.

So if no one has told you recently, allow me to borrow Aunt Fanny’s words and tell you, personally:

You’re doing the right thing.

Rabbi Elazar Meisels

He transforms the barren wife into a glad mother of children (End of Maggid)

It happened to the twin daughters of a very close family friend of mine. We’ll call them Rachel and Leah.

Raising twins is always a challenge, and raising twin girls brings its own unique dynamics. When the time came to send both to seminary in Eretz Yisrael, however, the challenge grew even larger.

Baruch Hashem, they were accepted into the seminary of their dreams. But how were their parents going to pay for it? Between tuition, living expenses and two round-trip tickets, it was overwhelming.

With tremendous siyata diShmaya and a great deal of sacrifice, the funds were somehow found. The girls went off to Eretz Yisrael, thrilled and excited, and settled in, their weeks enabling them to thrive spiritually and socially.

But in their mother’s heart was one quiet worry: Pesach. Pesach is a complicated time for families with children in seminary. Do you bring them home? Can you afford it? Should they stay? Do they want to stay?

In this case, she knew the answer to at least one of those questions. Her daughters would much rather be home. Pesach in their home was magical, their family’s Seder unforgettable. But the reality was stark: they had barely managed to afford the original tickets. There was no money for two more round trips. Maybe they could afford one. But one without the other? That was unthinkable.

She explained the situation gently over the phone. The girls responded graciously. “Ma, it’s okay. We understand. We’re happy here and we’ll have a beautiful Pesach in Eretz Yisrael.” But a mother hears more than words. She heard the longing.

A few days later, Leah called privately. “Ma, I want to talk about Pesach.” “Leah,” replied her mother, “I’m so sorry. I wish your father and I could. But we can’t.”

“Ma, listen. I’ll be fine here. Rachel should come home.” Her mother did a double take.  “Absolutely not. We can’t bring one of you home without the other.” “I don’t mind,” went on Leah. “I want her to go. I know how much it would mean to her and I’ll manage. Please talk to Tati.” After many conversations and making absolutely sure that Leah meant it, they agreed. Rachel would come home.

And so it was. Rachel had a beautiful Yom Tov at home, while Leah stayed behind.

Very few girls remained in seminary that Pesach. It was lonely and hard, but Leah was not one to sit idle. She found a local family, the Edelmans, and offered to help for Yom Tov. Every day she came early and cleaned and cooked and helped with the children. When she finished, she found more to do. She gave and gave and gave of herself. Mrs. Edelman was overwhelmed with gratitude and couldn’t stop speaking about Leah to her own mother in the States.

“Ma, this girl is unbelievable! She saved my Pesach.” Her mother listened and said, “You have a cousin. A wonderful boy. If even half of what you’re telling me is true, this Leah is something special.” And so, she made a phone call. Shortly after Yom Tov, Leah met that young man.

He would become her husband. And today, they are building a beautiful home together.

Sometimes, we hesitate to give because we are afraid. If I give, I will lose. If I give up my comfort, my companionship, my opportunity, what will I have left? But Leah gave away companionship for a few weeks. And in return, she received companionship for life.

When we give, we do not shrink our world. We expand it.

Rabbi Yosef Palacci

He would wrap Matzah and Maror in a sandwich and eat them together…

When it comes to maror at the Seder, we do not lean. Maror represents the bitterness of slavery, and in such a context, there is no leaning or royal comfort. When it comes to matzah, however, which represents freedom, we do lean.

But when we arrive at Korech, something interesting occurs.

We take matzah, which reflects freedom, and maror, which symbolizes bitterness, and we
sandwich them together. Given this blend, the question arises: what do we do? Should we lean or not lean? If maror says “don’t lean” and matzah says “lean,” what wins?

The halachah is clear: we lean. Why is that?

The Zohar calls matzah, “Lechem d’meheim’nusa—The bread of faith.” When you eat matzah on the night of the Seder, you are not just fulfilling a ritual. You are ingesting emunah. You are internalizing faith.

Think about it in very simple terms. People drink coffee to wake up and take vitamins for strength. On Pesach night, Hashem gives us spiritual nutrition. You eat matzah and you feed emunah to your soul. When we consider this, we can understand why we lean during Korech, when the matzah and maror are put together.

We have the maror of bitterness and pain. But wrapped around that, we have the matzah of faith. We wrap the maror inside matzah, the bitterness inside faith, and when that is done, the pain no longer crushes you. It doesn’t mean the maror isn’t bitter. It doesn’t mean life doesn’t have hardship. But it does mean that bitterness is held together by something greater. Because when a Jew has emunah, the hardship is transformed.

And that is why we lean. The matzah prevails and emunah wins. Hashem says to us: “Yes, there is maror in life. But wrap it in matzah, in emunah. And when you do so, you will discover that what felt bitter becomes something that carries meaning and purpose.”

When you have emunah, nothing is random. Everything becomes part of the process of geulah.

That is the secret of Pesach.

Rabbi Mashiach Kelaty

After the completion of the entire meal, we eat from the matzah which was guarded beneath the tablecloth (Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 477:1)

On the one hand, as the Torah tells us, matzah represents the fact that we left Egypt in haste with no time for the dough to rise (Shemos 12:39). But on the other hand, the Torah refers to matzah as lechem oni, bread of affliction (Devarim 16:3). During the slavery, matzah was eaten by the Jewish people. It was slave food.

But if that is the case, once we were freed, why do we keep eating prison bread? If a man eats porridge every day in prison, what does he do when he’s released? He wants steak and wants a feast. Why then would we celebrate freedom with “slave food”?

The message is profound.

A person who needs steak to feel free… isn’t free. He’s a slave to appetite, to comfort, to materialism. Freedom means you can sit at the Seder and eat something simple, and still feel royal.

Matzah is a double-edged symbol. It was the bread of affliction, and yet now it becomes the bread of freedom, because it proves that our freedom is not dependent on what we consume. We are not slaves to food. We are servants to Hashem.

Rabbi Fischel Schachter once related the following.

There was a grandfather who had a rule: nobody steals the afikoman at his table. Ever. “You want a bicycle? I’ll buy it. You want a toy? I’ll buy it. But nobody steals the afikoman.” For years, nobody stole it.

One year, at a big Seder with many guests, some of whom he did not even know, the afikoman was stolen. “I’m closing my eyes,” said the grandfather. “When I open them, the afikoman should be here.”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them. Nothing. He left the room, and minutes later returned... Still nothing. He then slowly sat down and looked across the room. “Let me tell you why I have this rule,” he began.

“I am a Holocaust survivor. In the Warsaw Ghetto, my father made a Seder under the pain of death, and somehow, we had matzah and had an afikoman. And I stole it. I crawled under the table and hid.

“While I was under the table, the Nazis came in and killed everyone, leaving me as the only survivor. I ran into the forest and met an older boy I knew by the name of Motel. I told him that I have only one thing: my afikoman. If he would steal it, I would never forgive him. We ran together for days, starving. Motel begged, again and again, ‘Please, let’s eat the afikoman.’ But I refused.

“One morning in a cave, the afikoman was gone. I accused Motel, but Motel denied it. It soon became a fist fight, and disturbed by the encounter, Motel ran away. Minutes later, I heard gunfire. Motel never returned.

“That,” concluded the grandfather, “is why no one steals the afikoman at my table.”

As soon as he finished, an old man in the back quietly raised his voice. “What if you were wrong? What if he never stole it?” “I wasn’t wrong,” said the grandfather. “I never saw the afikoman again.”

 “How do you know I was a thief?” came the same voice in response. The grandfather grew pale, confusion setting in. “I am Motel,” said the elderly man.

The grandfather froze.

“I never stole a thing in my life,” Motel went on. “I was never a thief… until tonight.” He pulled the afikoman out of his pocket and handed it back.

The afikoman is called tzafun, hidden, because the afikoman represents the future, and the future is hidden. We don’t know what tomorrow holds. We don’t even know what the next moment holds. But a Jew lives with bitachon, with trust. We say “B’ezras Hashem—With G-d’s help,” not as a slogan, but as a declaration that the future belongs to Hashem, and that we place ourselves into His hands.

That is the afikoman. It is the taste we carry with us into the far ends of the night, because it is faith which we carry into the unknown night of our future. With G-d at our side, we will never be alone.

Never.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

The most proper way of performing the commandment is to recite… Hallel melodiously (Meseches Sofrim 20:9)

Our Sages (Meseches Sofrim 20:9; see Orach Chaim 487:4) state that a person should recite Hallel ‘b’ne’imah,’ pleasantly, on the night of Pesach. The night of the Seder is not simply a historical commemoration; it is a night of gratitude when we turn to Hashem and say, “Thank You.”

Why, though, is there an emphasis to recite Hallel in a melodious manner on Pesach?

Consider the following.

If an elderly beggar walks down the street and pauses to pick something up from the sidewalk, looks at it briefly, and slips it into his pocket, how many people would care? Who would even notice?

But imagine a king, or a president, in the middle of a grand procession. Thousands are watching when suddenly, he stops, bends down, picks something up from the ground, examines it, and places it carefully in his pocket. News channels would analyze it for days. Commentators would speculate endlessly: What did he pick up? Why did he take it? What does it mean?

The more important the person, the more significant his every action becomes.

On the night of Pesach, Hashem, the King of Kings, “bent down,” so to speak, and chose Klal Yisrael. He lifted us from the dust of Egypt and made us His nation.

That is why we say Hallel tonight, and why we say it differently. Of all the times we recite Hallel throughout the year, this is the only night when we say it at the Seder table, with song, with melody, with warmth, with family around us. It is more than just a recitation. It is an expression of identity. We sing because we were chosen.

There was once a teacher who asked her class to write down one of the Seven Wonders of the World. The students quickly began listing famous landmarks, from the Great Wall of China to Niagara Falls to the Pyramids.

But one boy sat quietly, thinking. The teacher approached and asked, “Is something wrong? You can’t think of any?” “Oh no, I can,” the boy replied. “I’m just trying to decide which ones to write.” “Tell me what you’re thinking,” the teacher said.

The child answered: “Sight. Hearing. Touch. Walking. Speaking. Thinking. Loving.”

Sometimes the greatest wonders are the ones we take for granted. The night of the Seder is the night to appreciate what we have.

The Ramban (end of Parshas Bo) writes that the purpose of the miracles in Egypt was to implant within us eternal faith. The plagues, the redemption and the open miracles were all designed so that we would know, deeply and permanently, that Hashem guides the world.

This night can change us. It can change how we see ourselves, how we raise our children, and how we live.

Let us not rush through it. Let us live it. Let us feel it. Let us sing it.

Rabbi Avi Slansky

G-d has chastised me exceedingly, but He did not let me die… (Hallel)

About fifteen years ago, a friend of mine named Naftali told me a story that has stayed with me ever since.

Naftali is the outdoorsy type who can hike for days, canoe and kayak, climb mountains, build fires, catch fish and sleep under the starlit sky for a week at a time. He’s more than just the weekend-warrior.

But he always was cautious. He took safety courses, traveling with proper gear, GPS and emergency phones. He had heard too many horror stories and had no interest in becoming one.

One day, he and a friend went out on what for him was a simple kayaking trip. That meant strong rapids, rocks and a serious current. Not a gentle paddle around a lake. Of course, they wore life jackets and checked the weather routinely. The forecast was clear all week.

The morning was beautiful, casting blue skies with a glorious sunshine. Perfect, anyone would say. And so, they set out. But an hour or two into the trip, without warning, everything changed.

The sky turned black, as rain began pouring in sheets. It was a torrential, blinding rain, occurring instantly and completely unpredicted in the forecast. Within minutes, visibility dropped to almost nothing. The river wasn’t even wide, but they couldn’t see either bank. Water began pounding from above and rushing below, as they attempted to shout to each other over the deafening noise.

But there was perhaps another, more threatening, if not deadly, concern.

Lightning. Being out on the open water in a lightning storm is not exactly ideal. They tried guessing which direction was closer to shore and began paddling hard. But as minutes passed, nothing came in sight and panic began creeping in.

Then the unthinkable happened.

Lightning struck. They froze, their breaths shallow. If it hit the water, they’d be done. After a few seconds, though, they realized that they were still alive. It hadn’t struck the water near them. And then something else dawned on them.

When the lightning flashed, the sky lit up for a split second. And in that flash, they saw it. They had been paddling in the wrong direction. They quickly began shouting to each other and adjusting course amidst the terrifying rain and pitch black.

Oddly enough, they began hoping for another bolt of lightning. And sure enough, it came. This time, however, they were ready with no screaming and no panicking. And so, when the sky lit up, they took in the full picture, from the river to the shoreline to the direction they needed to go and the obstacles ahead. Within minutes, they reached the bank.

They hauled themselves out, shaking, drenched, but safe, and immediately began drying off and warming up. Eventually, they were able to continue their journey.

When Naftali told me this story, it struck a chord. It was, after all, a true story, terrifying no less, and a paradigm of life.

At many junctures of life, it is dark and pouring and we can’t see clearly. We try one direction, it doesn’t work, and then we try another, and still nothing. At this point, panic builds and we begin feeling stuck.

But then, something odd happens. There’s a moment of lightning.  A flash of clarity. Maybe it’s a moment in davening. Maybe it’s a conversation. Maybe it’s a difficult experience that suddenly reveals something about who we are. For a split second, everything becomes clear. We see where we are and we see where the shore is.

The key is what we do in that moment. Do we panic or do we pay attention? Those flashes of inspiration are not random. They are gifts which illuminate reality just long enough to let us recalibrate.

And if we are wise, we will use them. We will change direction, paddle toward the shore, and let the lightning guide us, instead of frightening us.

Because when clarity strikes, even for a moment, it can save lives.

Rabbanit Amit Yaghoubi

I thank You for You have answered me and become my salvation… (Hallel)

In life, you most likely have experienced this kind of cycle: You try and it doesn’t go well. And then you try again, and again, things unravel and fall apart. And then you try yet again. Eventually, after this pattern has occurred time after time, you begin to wonder why the pattern of life must be this way.

Until you realize that perhaps the falling and getting up is part of the perfection of your life.

The days leading up to and through Pesach are, for many people, the most stressful weeks on the calendar. It’s a labor-intensive Yom Tov. We are careful with halachah, minhagim and we want everything to be perfectly clean.

We can almost guarantee ourselves something.

No matter how organized we are, no matter how structured, there will be moments before, during or after Pesach when we feel like collapsing and unraveling. “I just finished this room. I cleaned every corner and every angle, and now someone walks in with crushed oatmeal on their shoes.”

But perhaps there is a deeper meaning behind it all.

Isn’t this life? The question is not whether things fall apart. The question is: Who am I when I’m coming apart? Falling apart is normal. In fact, it is part of redemption.

The Baal Shem Tov tells a story of a poor Jew named Mosh’ke who lived on the edge of the estate of a very wealthy poritz. Most of the time, Ivan, the poritz, barely remembered Mosh’ke existed because he took up almost no space. But once in a while, the portitz would remember: “The Jew owes me rent.”

Mosh’ke worked as hard as he could to make a living, but times were hard. One month passed, then two, then six. He barely had enough to feed his children, let alone save for rent. After six months, there was a violent knock on the door.

Ivan walked in. “Jew! You owe me six months of rent!”

Mosh’ke pleaded. “For years I paid on time. Recently, I’ve fallen on hard times and my children are hungry. Give me a little time.” Ivan had no mercy. “I’ll be back in one month. If you don’t have seven months of rent, you’re out on the street.”

Mosh’ke really tried, but there was nothing to save. His children were going to sleep hungry.

One month passed, and then another knock came. This time Ivan came with four large henchmen. “You didn’t pack. You’re not leaving?” “Where will I go? I have children. A baby.” Ivan gave the signal.

They threw Mosh’ke to the ground in front of his wife and children and kicked and beat him. Blood dripped onto the floor, as he screamed and begged. Eventually, they decided they had broken enough bones. They spat at him and left.

Mosh’ke lay there shattered, his wife and children traumatized. Even if he had been earning pennies before, now he couldn’t move. Meanwhile, the poritz returned home where a beautiful dinner had been prepared. “By the way,” his wife asked, “what ever happened with the Jew?” “Oh, I showed him who’s boss,” he replied, proudly. He went on to describe the beating with delight, as his wife looked at him in horror. “Were his children there?” “Yes.” “His wife?” “Yes.”

She stared at him. “You’re disgusting. You beat a man in front of his wife and children? And now how is he supposed to work? I’m ashamed of you!” He was stunned. This was not her usual reaction. “All our wealth came from my family, but now you’ve shamed us. I can’t live with you. I want a divorce.”

He began calculating. A divorce would cost him everything. “How can I fix this?” he asked his wife, desperately. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you go back to Mosh’ke. You forgive the seven months of rent, and you give him three years free so he can rebuild.”

He winced. That was a fortune. But cheaper than a divorce.

The next morning, Ivan returned to the edge of his estate. This time he knocked softly. Inside, Mosh’ke’s family trembled. “He’s back,” they whispered to one another, frightened. Eventually, the children cracked the door. Instead of arrogance, Ivan stood there awkwardly.

“Are your parents home?” He saw Mosh’ke in bed, broken. “How are you feeling?” he asked, again a gentle tone to his words. Mosh’ke could barely answer. “I was… perhaps a little rough yesterday,” Ivan muttered. “I’m forgiving the seven months you owe, and you can stay here three more years without rent. Recuperate yourself and get back on your feet.”

He lowered his head and left. Mosh’ke and his wife stared at each other. What just happened?

The Baal Shem Tov asks a striking question.

Imagine if Mosh’ke had known while he was being beaten, that every kick meant another month of free rent? Every punch, another month forgiven. That broken bone? A year of security. How would he have reacted? He might have said, “Ouch… that hurt, but thank you. If this is building something I can’t yet see, there must be something good coming.”

When we feel like we’re falling apart, says the Baal Shem Tov, Hashem is preparing a vessel for something we cannot yet imagine. It hurts and you can say “Ouch.” But maybe it is carving space for a future you haven’t seen yet.

As we move into and through the days of Pesach, when things unravel, when you feel overwhelmed, when you feel like everything is coming apart, remember: the falling is part of the perfection. The breaking is part of the building. And sometimes, the pain you don’t understand is quietly purchasing a future you can’t yet see.

You can say, “Hashem, this hurts.” And then you can say, “Thank You. And I wonder… What are You preparing for me?”

And then wait and see.

Mrs. Sarah Pachter

Give thanks to Hashem for He is good; for His kindness endures forever (Hallel)

If I had not heard this story from the family themselves, I would not have believed it.

A ten-year-old girl, Lana Cohen, one day started experiencing redness and swelling in her feet. And so, her parents did what any responsible parents would do. They took her to the pediatrician. The doctor said it was cellulitis, a simple skin infection. “No big deal,” they were told. “Here are some antibiotics.”

But instead of getting better, she got worse.

The redness spread and the swelling increased, becoming so painful and debilitating that the pediatrician sent them to the hospital. Upon arrival, her father began walking her down the hallway when she suddenly stopped in her tracks. “Abba,” she said faintly, “I can’t walk. I need you to hold me.” He picked her up. But as he lifted her, she went completely limp and then unconscious. She collapsed into his arms and fell into a coma, whereupon they immediately rushed her to the ICU.

Shortly thereafter, the head doctor pulled her father aside. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t think she’s going to live through the night.” Without skipping a beat, the father, Rabbi Steven Cohen, responded, “I’m sorry, did you mean to say we’re expecting a miracle? I think that’s what you meant.”

The doctor, a non-Jewish physician, looked at him. “I’ve worked with your people before. If you believe in miracles, you’re going to see a miracle.”

She survived that night. And the next.

Weeks passed. She remained in a coma as she underwent MRIs and tests after tests. Throughout the process, the family grew exhausted emotionally and physically. Finally, the doctors realized what had happened. She had experienced a severe allergic reaction to the antibiotic.

In an effort to arouse Heavenly mercy, they added the name Esther to her name, since the illness had erupted right before Ta’anis Esther. Her full Hebrew name now formed an acronym of the name of G-d, Elokim—Esther Leah Hadassah bas Yocheved Miriam—making it easier for Jews around the world to pray for her. And they did. Jews from every corner of the globe were davening for this little girl.

Three weeks into the coma, her father was drained and he stepped out of the hospital to get some air. On the way back, sitting in his car, he felt the urge to call a relative and share a piece of information. It was juicy and it bordered on lashon hara. He rationalized it, saying to himself, “They need to know. It’s important.”

So he picked up the phone. But then he paused. “No, I’m not going to do it.” Instead, at that moment, he whispered, “Hashem, I’m closing my mouth, and in that merit, please open my daughter’s mouth. Please wake her up.”

Ten minutes later, his wife called. “Steven! Her eyes are fluttering; her body is moving. I think she’s waking up. Get here now!” He rushed back to the hospital, and unbelievably, she had woken up.

It wasn’t instantaneous recovery. It was a long road and she had to relearn how to walk and speak. But today, she is a healthy young adult.

The Vilna Gaon (Iggeres HaGra) cites a Midrash which teaches that for every moment a person refrains from speaking lashon hara, he receives a reward beyond the comprehension of angels. There is something striking about that.

Every morning we thank Hashem for sight, for clothing, for strength and for the rest of our needs. But nowhere do we explicitly thank Him for speech, and speech is what distinguishes us as human beings. Why don’t we thank Hashem directly for this gift?

Perhaps because it is so often misused.

If someone gave you a magnificent garment and you stained it and tore it, would you then turn to them and say, “Thank you so much for this beautiful gift I just ruined”? We do not thank Hashem directly for speech. But we do say something else. We say “Matir Asurim,” and thank Hashem for, “Releasing the bound.”

What does that have to do with speech?

Rabbi Yechezkel Menashe once quoted the Zohar, cited by the Chofetz Chaim. When we speak lashon hara, it weakens our tefillos. Our prayers may ascend, but they cannot pierce the heavens. However, when we do teshuvah and refrain from negative speech, the shackles are removed. The tefillos that were held back are suddenly released and they reach Shamayim. That is the meaning of the blessing, “Who releases the bound.” The bound prayers are unfettered and soar heavenward.

Rabbi Menashe then told Lana’s story to a group of women in New York. As he finished, a young woman stood up and said, “That girl in the coma? That was me.”

When I finished interviewing Rabbi Cohen and his wife, they told me something that shook me. “There’s one thing we learned from this entire ordeal. When a doctor tells you something, all that means is now you know exactly what to daven for. We don’t live by statistics. We live beyond statistics.”

But perhaps the most powerful part of the story is this: it wasn’t a lifetime of perfection that triggered the miracle. It was one moment.

It may be unrealistic to promise we will never speak lashon hara ever again. But every one of us can stop ourselves once. Because when we do, and one moment joins another one moment, and yet another one moment, collectively, those moments soar above and pierce the heavens.

The Arizal (Pri Eitz Chaim, Shaar Mikrah Kodesh, Ch. 4) teaches that Pesach is associated with the phrase, “Peh-Sach—The mouth speaks.” Pesach is the time in which we liberate our mouths from harmful, negative speech and turn its focus on positive, praiseworthy words, discussing the miracles and wonders Hashem wrought for us in Egypt. Likewise, it is a time to catalyze our speech for the positive in how we speak to and about our fellow brothers and sisters. For as the Midrash states, one of the merits which fueled our redemption is that we did not engage in lashon hara (Vayikra Rabbah 32:5).

The mouth that speaks kindness and goodness is a truly free mouth. And above all, it provides the remedy for national and personal redemption in the most remarkable of ways.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

The Seder is now concluded in accordance with its laws… (Nirtzah)

At the end of the Seder we arrive at Nirtzah. And if we are honest, it feels almost anticlimactic.

At the beginning of the Seder, everything is packed. Maggid, matzah, maror. The table is alive with action and words and symbolism. But when we reach Nirtzah, what is there to do? Nothing. We say that Hashem has accepted our Seder and we sing a few songs. One of them is about a goat. Is that really the pinnacle?

Imagine climbing a ladder whose least important rung is the top rung. If there is therefore a Seder, an order, that order must be taking us somewhere. Each step must be building toward the next. Each paragraph of Maggid must be guiding us upward. So if there is a climax to the night, it must be Nirtzah. But what is Nirtzah?

Acceptance. Hashem has accepted our Seder. It means we have journeyed through slavery and redemption, through memory and meaning, and we now stand before Him whole. There is nothing left to add. Nothing left to fix in this moment.

After the Six Day War, a soldier approached Chacham Ovadia Yosef zt”l and asked if he could receive an aliyah on Shabbat in order to recite Birkat HaGomel, the blessing one says after surviving danger. Rav Ovadia asked why he felt obligated to make the blessing.

The soldier told him what happened.

He and his unit were inside a tank in the Sinai desert. Suddenly, without warning, a missile struck the tank directly. Though it weighed tons, it shook violently, the metal walls growing scorching hot and flaring into a ball of fire. The biggest problem was that the exit hatch had been crushed shut and smoke was rapidly filling the chamber. They could not breathe.

They knew what that moment meant. Each of them closed their eyes and screamed with whatever breath remained: “Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.” The declaration whispered by countless Jews as they left this world.

As they reached the word Echad, barely able to breathe, another missile hit the tank. Again, a direct hit. But this time, it struck the hatch and blasted it open. Like a soda can popping its top, the tank opened and they leapt out into the air, gasping, dancing around the burning metal that had almost become their coffin.

“That,” he said, “is why I need to bless Gomel.”

Think about the structure of the Haggadah near its end: Tzafun. Barech. Hallel. Nirtzah.

Tzafun means hidden. Barech means to bless. The sequence is not random. Only when something hidden is revealed can one truly bless.

How often do we thank Hashem for the revealed miracles? A lot. We recount the miracles when we left Egypt and crossed the Sea. But how often do we raise a cup for the slavery itself?

Egypt, though, taught us something indestructible. It engraved into our Jewish DNA that we, as a people, cannot be erased. You can enslave us, persecute us and exile us, but you cannot extinguish us.

The Haggadah says we went, “Me’avdut le’cheirut.” We typically translate it as, “From slavery to freedom.” But perhaps it also means, “Through slavery to freedom.” Through the difficulty. Through the second missile.

Sometimes the answer to the first “Why?” is not an answer. It is another “Why?”

On the night of the Seder, we ask question after question. We train ourselves to understand that meaning unfolds in stages. When Moshe asked, “Why have You done evil to this people?” (Shemos 5:22), Hashem answered not with an explanation, but with a process. The baby in the river will become the prince in the palace; the fugitive shepherd will become the redeemer. Exile will shape the leader. Only later does life make sense. That is Tzafun and Barech.

But there is a subsequential phase.

When something once hidden becomes clear, blessing erupts into praise. Barech folds and transitions into Hallel. And when that praise is complete, we arrive at Nirtzah. And at that point, there is nothing more to do. We have walked the journey. We have wrestled with the questions. We have seen the hidden become revealed.

We stand accepted.

May Hashem grant us the strength to transmit this resilience to our children. Once, we fought to remain Jews under slavery. Today, we fight to remain Jews in freedom. The battleground has changed, but the challenge has not.

The Seder night carries the power to make us strong Jews, proud Jews and fearless Jews. May we merit to reach our own Nirtzah and become exactly who Hashem intends us to be, at precisely the moment He intends for it to unfold.