Rabbi Fischel Schachter

The Hidden Light

The Vilna Gaon (Iggeres HaGra) states that for every moment a person restrains himself and remains silent, he merits a share in the Or HaGanuz, the hidden, primordial light reserved for the righteous.

But if we are honest, we might wonder: what does that mean for us? If given the choice, many would say, “Give me something tangible; something I can use. What am I meant to do with this hidden light?”

When the Belzer Rebbe, R’ Aharon Rokeach, fled from the Nazis during the war, his journey was filled with danger and miraculous escapes. At one point, the Nazis were closing in and the situation was dire. Suddenly, the Rebbe instructed the driver to stop the car.

His attendants were stunned. “Now? This is not the time!”

But the Rebbe insisted. He stepped out, sat down quietly on a rock for a few moments, then returned to the car and said, “We can continue.” Later, they asked him what had happened. Why stop at such a critical moment?

He answered simply. “I could not afford to lose my yishuv hada’as, my inner composure. Without peace of mind, one does not truly live.”

Think about that. Nazis were pursuing him. The danger was immediate and real. Yet he understood that clarity of mind and inner steadiness was not a luxury, but essential.

What gave him that ability? What “switch” did he turn on in that moment?

That is the Or HaGanuz.

It is the capacity to live with the deep, unshakable awareness that the story is already written, and that the end is good, that redemption awaits, and that everything ultimately leads to Geulah. It is like reading the final page of a book and knowing that it all resolves beautifully. Once you know the ending, you can endure the turbulence of the middle.

There was once a clarity in the world; a recognition that everything is moving toward Mashiach, toward Techiyas HaMeisim, toward a complete and joyous resolution. Over time, we have lost access to that awareness.

But when a person restrains his speech, he reconnects to that hidden light. He regains that inner equilibrium.

This idea is echoed in a striking story brought by the Chofetz Chaim. A man once came to a Rebbe, burdened by his past, ashamed of earlier mistakes. The Rebbe offered him a seemingly simple practice: “When you are wrapped in your tallis, do not speak at all.”

The man accepted this upon himself and remained steadfast his entire life.

After his passing, when he stood in judgment, he was questioned about various actions. Again and again, he responded, “I do not speak.”

That silence protected him. The discipline he had cultivated in this world became his shield in the Next.

When we learn to restrain our speech, when we hold back from negative speech and unnecessary words, we are not losing anything. We are gaining something far greater: clarity, dignity, inner calm, and a connection to that hidden light that transcends this world.

We gain yishuv hada’as, the ability to stand steady even when life feels like it is closing in.

And perhaps most importantly, we reclaim a profound spiritual freedom: the ability not to be controlled by impulse, by reaction, or by the noise around us. This is not some distant, abstract reward. It is available—here and now.

So let us take hold of it, even in small moments and even in brief acts of restraint. Because each moment of silence is a beam of eternal light.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

The Sea Before You

Klal Yisrael stood at the edge of the Yam Suf trapped, uncertain, and overwhelmed. Behind them, the Egyptians were closing in, and ahead of them lay an impassable ocean. There was nowhere to turn. With no other option, they cried out to Hashem.

But the response they received was unexpected. Hashem turns to Moshe and says: “Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to Bnei Yisrael and let them travel.”

But go where? Into the sea?

The sefarim explain that Hashem was teaching a foundational principle. When a barrier stands before you—when something appears to block your path entirely—you cannot assume that it defines your limits. The obstacle is not the end of the road. If a path has been placed before you, you are meant to move forward.

You possess within the ability and an emunah that is stronger than the obstacle itself. And when you connect to it, no barrier can ultimately withstand it.

The Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev explains that the sea did not split merely because Nachshon ben Aminadav jumped in with mesirus nefesh. It split because Hashem had already said: “Go.” Nachshon’s choice was the embodiment of emunah in motion. When Hashem opens a path, even if it seems irrational, even if it defies logic, step forward.

This idea was lived with extraordinary clarity by Rav Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn in the terrifying days preceding World War II. Living under Soviet oppression, surrounded by danger, arrests, and surveillance, his followers urged him to escape. But escape was anything but simple. Borders were closing and the Nazis were advancing. His identity was known and every option seemed fraught with risk, if not outright impossible.

At one point, a narrow and uncertain opportunity emerged: a train out of Warsaw. The plan was unstable, the conditions chaotic, the danger immense. Those around him were gripped with fear. “Rebbe, what if the documents are rejected? What if the train is stopped? What if this is a trap?” Every question was justified. Every concern was real.

And yet, he responded: “If this is the path that has been opened, then we go. A Yid must do what he can, and trust that no force in the world can obstruct what Hashem has decreed.” There were no guarantees. No assurances of safety. Only clarity of purpose.

He boarded the train.

Again and again along the journey, events unfolded that should have ended it, from documents scrutinized to passengers questioned and moments of near exposure. And yet, step by step, against all odds, he passed through. He escaped, survived, and continued to rebuild what might otherwise have been lost.

But those who heard the story did not focus only on the miracle. They focused on the moment before it. The moment when everything appeared illogical, dangerous, even reckless. And still, he stepped forward. Not because it made sense, but because he understood that when a door opens, you walk through it with emunah.

You do what is in front of you. Step forward when the path appears. And trust, deeply and fully, that nothing can prevent what is meant to be.

This is the message of Shevi’i shel Pesach.

Each of us stands, at times, before our own “sea.” A step we have been avoiding. A dream we quietly buried because it felt too overwhelming, too unrealistic, too far beyond our reach. We tell ourselves it is not the right time or it is impractical. But often, that is not the truth. More often, it is fear, carefully disguised as logic.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin states that the words, “And they believed in Hashem and Moshe, His servant” (Shemos 14:31), that just as there is a mitzvah to believe in Hashem, there is also a mitzvah to believe in oneself.

Because if one truly believes in Hashem, then one must also believe that the power placed within himself is capable of carrying him forward.

Nothing in the world can stand in the way of that. And in that step, you may just discover that the sea was never meant to stop you. It was meant to split.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

Signed With Humility

Humility is the hallmark of true greatness.

One of the greatest sages of the last five centuries was Rav Chaim Yosef David Azulai zt”l, a towering figure of extraordinary greatness, whose writings span vast areas of Torah literature. Yet alongside his greatness stood a striking and defining trait: profound humility.

This is reflected even in a remarkable historical artifact—a personal check signed by the Chida, dated March 30, 1787 (11 Nissan) to Shabtai Cohen. The sum recorded would amount to a small fortune in today’s terms, approaching a million dollars. The very document showcases his remarkable versatility, even bearing his signature in English. And yet, it is not his capability that leaves the deepest impression, but his humility.

The Chida authored multiple commentaries on the Haggadah, including Batei HaNefesh. There, he cites a powerful idea from Rav Yaakov Yosef Katz in Ben Poras Yosef, namely that the root cause of the exile in Egypt was arrogance; an arrogance that the Jewish people had absorbed from their Egyptian surroundings. Redemption, therefore, required the cultivation of the opposite trait: humility.

This is reflected in the Pasuk, which highlights that the Jewish people surrounded Har Sinai in as one, in unity and shalom (Shemos 19:2). It was at that point that they reached the apex of this middah.

The Chida explains that this is also why we are commanded to eat matzah. It embodies this idea. Unlike chametz, which rises and expands, matzah remains flat, symbolizing humility, simplicity, and self-nullification. In a world filled with strife and ego, we are commanded to eat matzah to internalize humility and dissolve division.

The Chida adds a beautiful allusion, namely that the final letters of the phrase, “Ha lachma anya di—This is the bread of affliction that…” (aleph, aleph, aleph, yud), contains the numerical value of thirteen—corresponding to echad, oneness and unity. From the humble matzah emerges unity; and from unity emerges giving, echoed in the phrase, “Kol dichfin yeisei v’yeichol—All who are hungry, let them come and eat.” And from giving—tzedakah—comes redemption, as Chazal teach, “Great is tzedakah for it hastens the redemption” (Bava Basra 10a).

But perhaps the most moving expression of the Chida’s humility is found in his own signature.

When he signed his name in his Shaalos U’Teshuvos Beis Dovid, of Rav Dovid of Salonika, the Chida signed his name three times. But he did not simply write “Rabbi Chaim Yosef David Azulai.” Instead, he wrote: “L’eved Hashem, L’Dovid HaKatan, Tza’ir anochi v’nivzeh—The words of the servant of Hashem, Dovid, the small one; I am young and despised.” This was the displayed humility of the Chida.

According to the Chida, this is one of the great lessons of the matzah and why we merited the geulah from Mitzrayim.

May we merit, through internalizing this lesson, to experience the fulfillment of, “Now we are here; next year in the Land of Israel.”

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Life at the Boston Hospital

The section from the Torah which we utilize in the Haggadah to describe the storyline of the exile and exodus from Egypt is a strange one, at face value. It stems from Parshas Ki Savo, which discusses Bikkurim, the First Fruits. Why is this?

Perhaps we can illuminate this question through a remarkable insight from Rav Hutner zt”l.

When a farmer brings his bikkurim—his first fruits—to the Beis Hamikdash, the Torah requires him to recite a detailed declaration, recounting the history of Klal Yisrael’s descent into and redemption from Mitzrayim. The opening words are striking: “Ve’anisa ve’amarta lifnei Hashem Elokecha—And you shall answer and say before Hashem your G-d…” (Devarim 26:5).

But this raises an obvious question: What is he answering? No question was asked. What, then, is the meaning of “ve’anisa—And you shall answer”?

Rav Hutner offers a profound explanation.

When Moshe Rabbeinu first approached Klal Yisrael in Mitzrayim with the promise of redemption—“Ve’heveisi eschem el ha’aretz”—that Hashem would bring them into Eretz Yisrael, the Torah records: “Ve’lo sham’u el Moshe.” They did not listen. Why not? It was, after all, extraordinary news.

The Meshech Chochmah explains that Klal Yisrael were crushed under the weight of suffering—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In such a state, a person cannot absorb visions of the future. When survival itself is overwhelming, destiny feels distant. They were simply incapable of responding.

Years later, explains Rav Hutner, a Jewish farmer stands in Eretz Yisrael, holding his first fruits, living a life of stability and blessing. And now, he responds. “Ve’anita ve’amarta”— I am answering on behalf of my ancestors. Back then, when they heard “Ve’heveisi,” they could not respond. Today, I stand here and declare: “Ve’hinei heveisi et reishis pri ha’adamah—I am bringing my first fruit of the ground.”

The two “ve’heveisi” are inseparably linked.

The farmer is saying: I am not only bringing my fruits; I am completing the response to Hashem’s original promise. What my ancestors could not express, I now express. What they could not absorb, I now live. My gratitude today is not only for the fruits in my hands, but for the entire journey that made them possible, beginning with Yetzias Mitzrayim.

This, perhaps, is why the Haggadah adopts the Parsha of Bikkurim as the framework for telling the story of the Exodus. Because it teaches us the true depth of hakaras hatov.

Gratitude is not merely saying “thank you” for the immediate blessing. It is recognizing the entire chain of kindness—the unseen, unfolding consequences of Hashem’s chesed across time.

A nurse in a hospital in Boston suddenly went into cardiac arrest during her shift. Doctors rushed in and worked tirelessly to revive her, but after twenty minutes, they declared her dead.

A young Jewish man, Mr. Rosenberg, who happened to be visiting a patient, witnessed the scene. As an EMT, he stepped forward and asked to try. Despite skepticism and resistance, he persisted. Minutes passed. Then suddenly, he cried out: “We have a pulse!”

She was rushed to the ICU. Within weeks, she recovered and was discharged.

When she regained her strength, she asked to meet the man who had saved her life. Initially hesitant, he agreed, recognizing the opportunity to create a Kiddush Hashem.

When they met, she told him something extraordinary: “Thank you is not enough. You say thank you when someone holds a door or picks up something you dropped. But you gave me my life.

“Every morning when I wake up, I will thank you. When I see my children’s faces, I will thank you. When they come home from school, I will thank you. When they get married, and I walk them down the aisle—I will thank you. Because every moment from now on exists because of what you did.”

That is hakaras hatov.

As we sit around the Yom Tov table, surrounded by family and blessing, we are invited to pause and reflect not only on what we have in front of us, but on everything that made this moment possible. Every act of kindness. Every nes, seen and unseen. Every moment that has carried us here. And when we recognize that, when we truly see the full picture, our gratitude deepens and transforms.

Rabbi Don Jarashow

Can’t Get It Wrong

A fire department executive once explained something powerful about training new firefighters.

“Most people,” he said, “practice until they get it right. But in firefighting, we train until we can’t get it wrong.”

That distinction is everything.

It is not about occasional success, but repetition to the point where the response becomes instinctive and automatic.

And this is precisely what the Seder is meant to be.

The Seder is not a one-night experience. It is not a temporary connection, not a brief “trial period” of spirituality that expires after Yom Tov. It is about building something enduring: a relationship with Hashem that is so deeply rooted, so fully internalized, that it cannot simply be “peeled away” the next day.

Each year, there is a window that opens. It is a spiritual atmosphere that is unlike any other time of the year. But it does not remain open forever.

We are given one Seder, perhaps two. And within those moments lies an extraordinary potential.

So how do we respond?

We sit with our families—with our children, our spouses, our parents—and we go over the message again and again, until it becomes clear, until it becomes real, until we cannot get it wrong. Where we understand, with clarity and conviction, that no matter what name, what leader, what country, what force appears to dominate the moment, there is only one true source of power.

Only Hashem.