Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Shabbat 250

By now, we all know about President Donald Trump’s proclamation. In honor of the 250th anniversary of American independence, and during the weekend of “Rededicate 250,” he encouraged Jewish Americans to observe a national Sabbath. Such a statement is unprecedented. Never has a sitting leader or the President of the United States, the leader of the free world, publicly encouraged the Jewish people to observe Shabbos. Even more striking was his call for all Americans to draw inspiration from the Jewish day of rest. From sundown on May 15 until nightfall on May 16, he invited Americans to experience a 25-hour period of rest modeled after the Shabbos faithfully observed by Jews each week.

More than fifty years ago, another moment captured the attention of the American public and became one of the greatest modern examples of Kiddush Hashem. In 1965, Sandy Koufax, the legendary pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers, chose not to pitch Game 1 of the World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur. Koufax is widely regarded as one of the greatest left-handed pitchers in baseball history. He won three Cy Young Awards and became the youngest player ever inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. He was the marquee star of the sport, and the entire nation anticipated seeing him take the mound on baseball’s grandest stage.

Yet despite the immense pressure and expectation, Koufax made the courageous decision to place faith before fame. Though not fully observant and despite having played on Yom Kippur in earlier years, he chose that night not to stand before millions in a packed stadium, but instead to fast and attend Yom Kippur davening in shul. Decades later, despite all of his athletic accomplishments, Koufax is remembered most significantly for the game he did not play. That singular act ignited Jewish pride throughout America and became an enduring symbol of Jewish conviction and identity.

The twentieth century’s most prominent Shabbos-observant political figure was Joseph Lieberman. Early in his career, while serving as a Connecticut State Senator in 1971, the Senate delayed a Friday evening vote because Lieberman needed to leave in order to observe Shabbos. He would later go on to serve with distinction in the United States Senate and, in the year 2000, came within mere hundreds of votes of becoming Vice President of the United States.

In 2011, Lieberman authored a book titled The Gift of Rest, in which he reflected on the beauty and necessity of Shabbos. He wrote that every generation has its own form of bondage, its own “slave masters,” shaped by the spirit of the age. In our generation, he argued, those forces are often the endless distractions of technology: phones, tablets, computers, and devices that consume hour after hour of our lives. Shabbos, he explained, liberates us from that tyranny. For twenty-five sacred hours, we are freed from the constant noise and pressure of the modern world.

And now, in the twenty-first century, the most powerful man in the world, a leader with unparalleled reach and influence, is publicly encouraging Klal Yisrael to embrace Shabbos. “Lev melech b’yad Hashem—The heart of a king is in the hand of Hashem” (Mishlei 21:1). Perhaps Hashem is sending us a message. Perhaps this is a call for the Jewish people to strengthen their shemiras Shabbos, and He has placed that message specifically in the mouth of someone capable of reaching millions.

Chazal teach: “If the Jewish people would keep even one Shabbos properly, Mashiach would come immediately” (Yerushalmi Taanis 1:1; Shemos Rabbah 25:12). (See Shabbos 118b which states that if the Jewish people would keep two Shabbos properly, they would be immediately ‘redeemed’; cf. Rashi, Bamidbar 15:30). How fitting that this message emerges specifically now, in the days leading up to Shavuos, before Matan Torah. The mitzvah of Shabbos itself preceded Har Sinai. Chazal teach, “Shabbos b’Marah nitztavu—The Jewish people were commanded regarding Shabbos already in Marah,” before the giving of the Torah (Shemos 15:25; Rashi, ad loc.; Sanhedrin 56a).

Rav Menachem Mendel of Vorka once posed a fascinating question. What should we call the Shabbos before Shavuos? The Shabbos before Yom Kippur is known as Shabbos Shuvah. The Shabbos before Pesach is called Shabbos HaGadol. So what is the Shabbos before Shavuos called?

He answered: it is called Shabbos Derech Eretz. Because derech eretz kadma l’Torah— human decency, refinement of character, and moral sensitivity must precede Torah itself. Before receiving the Torah, a person must first become a vessel worthy of carrying it.

Perhaps today we may add another dimension to that idea. Before receiving the Torah anew on Shavuos, we must demonstrate that we are truly the children of Hashem. Shabbos is the eternal sign between Hashem and Klal Yisrael, a gift uniquely entrusted to the Jewish people. Chazal teach, “Nochri she’shavas chayav misah—A non-Jew who observes Shabbos is liable to the death penalty” (Sanhedrin 58b). The covenant of Shabbos belongs uniquely to Am Yisrael. Thus, before Kabbalas HaTorah, we reaffirm who we are through our embrace of Shabbos itself.

And so, as America commemorates 250 years of independence, perhaps Jews throughout the world should welcome this Shabbos by lighting a candle in honor of its sanctity. Remarkably, the word “ner” has the numerical value of 250.

May it be the will of Hashem that in the merit of Shemiras Shabbos, the promise of Chazal be fulfilled: If Klal Yisrael would keep even one Shabbos properly, Mashiach would come immediately. May it be this Shabbos.

Have a beautiful and uplifting Shabbos.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

The Songs of Shabbos

One of the most universally beloved zemiros sung at the Shabbos table is undoubtedly Shalom Aleichem. Across communities, countries, and traditions, Jews return home from shul on Friday night and begin the meal with these timeless words. Yet beneath the familiar melody lies a profound and deeply layered idea, rooted in Chazal, Kabbalah, and generations of Jewish thought.

Before understanding the words themselves, we must first understand where this piyut comes from.

Shalom Aleichem originates from the liturgy of the disciples of the Arizal, and appears in the Tikkunei Shabbos. It is relatively recent in origin, composed by the kabbalists of the seventeenth century. Its source, however, is rooted in a famous Gemara (Shabbos 119b) which teaches that when a Jew returns home from shul on Friday night, he is accompanied by two angels. These malachim enter the home and observe whether the Shabbos table has been prepared properly: the candles lit, the beds arranged, the atmosphere ready for the holiness of Shabbos. If the home is prepared appropriately, the angels bless the family that the coming week should be the same.

Today, Shalom Aleichem has become almost synonymous with the arrival of Shabbos itself. Yet surprisingly, it was not universally accepted without controversy. Some great authorities objected to parts of the piyut, and others questioned whether it should be recited at all. The Vilna Gaon, according to certain traditions, objected to portions of it. Rav Yaakov Emden also raised concerns, particularly regarding the final stanza. Nevertheless, the overwhelming majority of Gedolim embraced the custom, and over time it became one of the defining openings of Friday night.

The opening words are simple yet powerful:

“Shalom Aleichem—Peace unto you.” But shalom in Torah thought means far more than the absence of conflict. It shares a root with the word shleimus—wholeness, completion, harmony. The malachim accompanying us are known as Malachei HaShalom, angels of peace, because they exist in perfect harmony with the will of Hashem. Unlike human beings, angels possess no competing desires, no inner contradictions, no ego that disrupts their mission. They exist solely to fulfill the will of Hashem.

Human beings, however, possess free will. We can create harmony, but we can also create destruction. Chazal teach that a person who sins acquires a prosecuting angel (Avos 4:11). Therefore, as we enter our homes on Friday night accompanied by these holy malachim, we greet them with the words: “Shalom Aleichem.” May peace reign here. May no failing on our part disturb the harmony and holiness accompanying this home tonight.

Rabbi Shalom Rokeach zt”l, the Sar Shalom, offers a remarkable insight. Initially, when the angels enter the home, they are called Malachei HaShareis, ministering angels, because they stand on a higher spiritual level than human beings. But after they witness a Jewish home prepared for Shabbos—the glowing candles, the challos on the table, the atmosphere of kedushah—they perceive the greatness of Klal Yisrael. They now become Malachei HaShalom, angels of peace, because the holiness of a Jewish home creates peace between Heaven and earth.

The Sar Shalom further explains that once a Jew has prepared properly for Shabbos, he himself becomes elevated. Through preparing for Shabbos, through preparing the home for holiness, a person rises spiritually to such an extent that the malachim themselves stand in awe. We therefore bid them farewell because the holiness of Shabbos has now permeated the Jewish home itself and taken the role that the angels serve.

That is why we begin Shabbos with a simple and timeless declaration.

Shalom Aleichem. May peace dwell here.

Rabbi Jonathan Taub

I'll be Waiting For You

One of the stories that has always deeply inspired me is about Rabbi Nosson Tzvi Finkel zt”l, the legendary Rosh Yeshiva of the Mir Yeshiva.

As is known, he suffered terribly from Parkinson’s disease. Every movement demanded enormous exertion. To watch him speak was to witness a man overcoming physical agony through sheer spiritual strength. And yet, despite his suffering, his concern for others never diminished.

There was a young man who, in today’s language, would be called “at risk.” He had struggled greatly in his earlier years and eventually entered a yeshiva designed for boys who needed additional support and guidance. There, he slowly began rebuilding himself. Over time, he progressed to the point where he entered the Mir Yeshiva.

He arrived in Elul, just before the Yamim Noraim, filled with hope but also anxiety. He spent the month immersed in the atmosphere of the yeshiva and experienced a powerful spiritual awakening. But as Yom Kippur approached its conclusion, another fear loomed in his mind. Soon he would return home for the Sukkos break, where he would inevitably encounter old friends and old influences. He feared being drawn backward into the very life he had struggled so hard to leave behind. After Ne’ilah on Yom Kippur, while most people were still emotionally overwhelmed from the holy day, the young man rushed to Rav Nosson Tzvi’s home, hoping to receive a beracha before the Rosh Yeshiva arrived.

Rav Nosson Tzvi, frail and physically broken, was being carried home by talmidim from the yeshiva. The students surrounded him singing, accompanying their revered Rosh Yeshiva. When they arrived at the entrance to his home, the young man stepped forward nervously and asked whether he could speak privately with the Rosh Yeshiva.

Rav Nosson Tzvi motioned for him to come inside. The boy explained his fear. “Rebbe,” he said, “I’m going home for Yom Tov, and I’m afraid. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough. I want a beracha that I will come back to the Mir.”

Rav Nosson Tzvi listened carefully. Then, with immense effort, slowly and deliberately, he spoke: “You will come back.” Especially after an exhausting Yom Kippur, those few words alone were monumental. To the boy, he felt reassured. He thanked the Rosh Yeshiva and left the house encouraged. A short while later, before he had even walked a hundred yards, another student came running after him.

“The Rosh Yeshiva wants to speak to you again.” The boy hurried back, confused. He entered the room and saw Rav Nosson Tzvi lying down, utterly exhausted. The Rosh Yeshiva motioned for the boy to lean closer. The young man bent down, wondering what final message the great Rosh Yeshiva wished to tell him.

Then, summoning extraordinary strength, Rav Nosson Tzvi whispered: “And I will be waiting for you.”

Those words changed the boy’s life. He eventually returned to the Mir and later became a rebbe there himself. What made those words so powerful?

It was not simply the beracha. It was the empathy behind it. It was the feeling that someone genuinely cared. Someone believed in him.

There are moments when a person can endure tremendous hardship simply because they know someone is rooting for them. That is the power of empathy. That is the power of making another human being feel seen, valued, and awaited.

And perhaps that is a lesson we can carry into every relationship in our lives: with our spouses, our children, our students, our friends, and even strangers. People do not merely need advice. Often, what they need most is to know that someone truly cares whether they succeed.

“I will be waiting for you.”

Sometimes, those few words can save a life.

There are moments when a person can endure tremendous hardship simply because they know someone is rooting for them. That is the power of empathy. That is the power of making another human being feel seen, valued, and awaited.

And perhaps that is a lesson we can carry into every relationship in our lives: with our spouses, our children, our students, our friends, and even strangers. People do not merely need advice. Often, what they need most is to know that someone truly cares whether they succeed.

“I will be waiting for you.”

Sometimes, those few words can save a life.

Rabbi Elchonon Jacobovitz

How Great You Are

Officially, Avi was a student at the Ponevezh Yeshiva, but everyone knew he never quite fit the mold. When the other bochurim were immersed in the beis midrash, Avi could usually be found back in the dormitory. While his peers analyzed a difficult sugya in Gemara, he was more likely to be absorbed in the pages of newspaper Yedioth Ahronoth. Torah learning did not seem to ignite him the way it did everyone else. Yet somehow, despite all the odds, he remained in yeshiva. And eventually, the day came when he became engaged.

Like many chassanim before him, Avi went to receive a beracha from Rav Elazar Menachem Shach zt”l before his wedding. He entered the room expecting a brief blessing for success, shalom bayis, and a faithful Jewish home.

But Rav Shach surprised him.

The Rosh Yeshiva said, “You know, here in Bnei Brak many people are careful not to use the public electricity on Shabbos. They rely instead on special Shabbos generators. But where you are moving, there are no such generators. Those who are machmir there use kerosene lanterns.”

Then Rav Shach looked directly at the young chassan and said: “I want you to promise me that even when you move out of town, you will not use the public electricity on Shabbos. Use only kerosene lanterns, like the Chazon Ish families.”

Avi agreed.

Rav Shach gave him a warm beracha, and the young man left the room. The gabbai, however, was bewildered. “Rosh Yeshiva,” he asked, “with all respect, does the Rosh Yeshiva know who this boy is? This is not a bochur struggling with subtle chumros. This is a boy who reads secular newspapers in the dormitory. Of all things, why speak to him about being machmir on electricity?”

Rav Shach smiled. “That,” he replied, “is exactly the point. If I had told him to stop reading newspapers, do you think he would listen? Of course not. But instead, I gave him something else. I told him to see himself as a Chazon Ishnik. As someone diligently careful with halacha.”

Then Rav Shach added words of extraordinary insight: “And I promise you, if he sits under that kerosene lantern, he will not be reading Yediot Ahronot.” Rav Shach understood something profound about human nature. People rarely rise because they are crushed by criticism. More often, they rise because someone teaches them to see themselves differently. In earlier generations, perhaps forceful rebuke was enough. People were spiritually stronger, emotionally sturdier. But today, many people are searching for dignity and searching for identity.

And perhaps that is precisely the lesson of Yosef HaTzaddik. The Torah describes Yosef as a ben zekunim, a delicate child, someone emotionally different from his brothers. And what did Jacob do for him? “V’asa lo kesones passim.” He gave him a special garment. Not merely clothing, but identity. Yaakov Avinu understood that if Yosef was to survive the moral dangers of the world, he needed to feel elevated. He needed to believe that he was greater than the temptations surrounding him. And indeed, when Yosef later stood alone in the house of Potiphar, facing one of the greatest spiritual tests imaginable, it was not merely fear that saved him. It was identity.

Potiphar’s wife grabbed his external garment: “Vatitpeseihu b’vigdo.” But Yosef remembered his true garment—his kesones passim. He remembered who he was. Chazal explain that Yosef reminded himself: “I come from a holy family. The Ribbono Shel Olam revealed Himself to my father’s house. My family brings korbanos to Hashem. I cannot do this.”

The temptation did not become smaller. Yosef became bigger.

A friend of mine once told me that while driving on the Van Wyck Expressway, he saw a truck crash directly into a low overpass because the driver ignored all the warning signs telling trucks to exit. The truck became wedged beneath the bridge. The driver climbed out in shock and muttered to himself: “I can’t believe I got stuck. I didn’t realize how big I was.”

Perhaps that is our struggle as well. We get trapped because we forget our own size. Our own greatness. Our own dignity. So go acquire your own kesones passim. Take on a meaningful chumra. Wear a gartel. Buy a beautiful pair of glasses. Carry yourself with dignity. Do something that reminds you who you are and who you are capable of becoming. Because when temptation comes knocking, do not merely tell yourself how terrible the aveira is.

Tell the aveira how great you are.