Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

The Torah’s Guide to Communication

Whether we discuss husband and wife, parents and children, friends, colleagues, or members of a community, the ability to communicate lies at the heart of human connection. Indeed, one could argue that the single most important factor in whether two human beings are able to coexist, grow together, and truly understand one another is their capacity to communicate effectively.

The Torah has a great deal to say about this.

When the Torah describes the creation of the very first human being, Adam HaRishon, it tells us that G-d breathed into him a living spirit. Targum Onkelos famously translates this as “Ruach memalela—A speaking spirit” (Bereishit 2:7). Humanity, from its very inception, was designed as communicative existence. Speech is not incidental to the human condition; it is central to it.

What is remarkable is what happens immediately afterward.

After Adam is created and completes his initial tasks, there is a moment in which he stands alone. And then G-d declares something extraordinary: “Lo tov heyot ha’adam levado—It is not good for man to be alone” (ibid. 2:18). Consider the significance of that statement. Until this moment, everything in creation had been described as good. G-d created light,  and it was good. The heavens and the earth, good. The vegetation, the animals, the cosmos itself, all declared good. Yet there is one thing in creation that G-d explicitly says is not good: human isolation. Loneliness. Separation. Disconnection between people.

If there were ever a time to appreciate how destructive division between human beings can be, it is now. Division destroys and the inability to communicate destroys, which means that communication is not merely a social skill; it is a moral and spiritual imperative.

I would like to distill a few essential principles.

The first mistake people make about communication is assuming that communication is primarily about speaking. It is not. In fact, very often, speaking can become the exact opposite of communication. The word “communication” derives from the Latin communicare, meaning “to make common,” or “to share together.” True communication is the creation of shared space between people. The question is: how much of our speech actually accomplishes that? And how much of it merely drives people further apart?

In Hebrew, lips are called sifatayim. The root word, safah, means “edge” or “boundary.” The lips sit at the threshold between the inner and outer worlds. Biologically, they are unique; they resemble the inner tissue of the body more than the outer skin. That is not accidental. The lips symbolize the meeting point between interiority and exteriority, the place where what exists deep within the human heart can emerge and be shared with another person. Communication, then, is not simply the transmission of information. It is the revelation of inner worlds.

This means that effective communication begins long before words are spoken. It begins in how we perceive another person, how we emotionally experience them, and whether we genuinely seek to enter their reality before attempting to impose our own.

So let me begin with one of the most important principles of communication: it does not matter only what you said. What matters is what the other person heard.

One of the most profound ideas I have encountered through the Torah is the following. We do not merely experience experiences. We experience the way we experience experiences. In other words, human beings do not react simply to objective reality. They react to their perception of reality.

Imagine sitting at home late at night and suddenly hearing loud footsteps downstairs. Immediately your heart begins racing. Some of us, if we are being honest, already have a “robber plan.” You know exactly where you would hide, which objects could become improvised weapons, and how quickly you could reach the front door. Some of us laugh at this because we know precisely what I mean.

Now imagine running downstairs in fear only to discover that no intruder exists at all. Perhaps it was merely the house settling. Perhaps a small animal made a noise. Objectively, there was never any danger. But subjectively, the fear was absolutely real, because you were not merely experiencing an event. You were experiencing your interpretation of the event.

This principle governs every relationship. If a child feels humiliated at school, whether or not the intention was to humiliate them becomes secondary. The emotional experience is real. If a spouse feels unloved, it does not matter how deeply the other spouse internally feels love. If that love is not being communicated in a way that can actually be received, then emotionally, the absence is real.

I once heard a humorous story about a Sephardic husband whose wife asks him, “How come you never tell me that you love me?” He responds, “I told you under the chuppah. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.” It is funny because it captures something profoundly true about human communication. Love that is not felt may as well remain unspoken. Intention alone is insufficient because human beings require emotional translation. They need to hear care, experience concern, and feel understood. And therefore, genuine communication is not measured by what leaves your mouth. It is measured by what enters another person’s heart.

Rule number one is: it does not matter only what you said. What matters is what the other person heard. Very often, what we are trying to communicate produces the exact opposite effect of the one we intended.

I remember years ago driving through Jerusalem and noticing one of the Machlis boys sitting outside the Mir Yeshiva. Henny Machlis a”h, along with her husband, were extraordinary people whose home became synonymous with radical hospitality and limitless kindness. Their hearts were enormous. On any given Friday night, you could find well over a hundred people packed into their tiny apartment. And I mean packed. Their dining room was not large. It was their capacity for love which was.

They had a custom that some families have of washing before Kiddush. Now, in some homes that custom exists for convenience. In the Machlis home, it existed for survival. Once you sat down, there was no getting up again. People were squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder onto benches like sardines. So I pulled over and offered him a ride home. He got into the car, and I immediately asked him, “Can I ask you a question?” “Sure,” he said.

“Your parents devoted their lives to chesed. They clearly wanted to instill within each of their children a love for hospitality, generosity, and caring for others. But you have many siblings. Surely not every child always wanted a hundred guests in the house every Shabbat. What if one of you simply wanted a quiet meal? What if someone had a difficult week? What if a child needed rest, space, or quiet? Did it ever occur to your parents that instead of teaching love of chesed, they might unintentionally have been teaching resentment toward chesed?” I remember thinking I had asked a profound question.

He smiled at me. And that smile taught me the difference between great communicators and everyone else.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “That is why dinner for the guests started at seven o’clock. Before that, our family had an entirely separate meal together. We made Kiddush privately, ate together privately, bentched privately, and had time as a family first. Then, afterward, whoever wanted to stay for the larger meal stayed. And whoever needed quiet, rest, or privacy already had it.” That answer stayed with me for years.

Truly effective communicators understand something most people miss: sometimes the message we are trying to send is not the message people are actually receiving. The Machlis parents knew how to get it right. They communicated exactly what they wanted their children to know in a way their children would understand without question.

At times, a parent may think they are inspiring discipline, while the child experiences rejection. A spouse may think they are expressing concern, while the other hears criticism. A teacher may think they are motivating growth, while the student experiences shame. Intent and impact are not always the same thing. Nowhere is this more obvious than with teenagers.

Teenagers

Anyone who has ever attempted to force a teenager to do something they did not want to do already knows this truth. The harder you push, the more resistance you often create. We think we are producing commitment, but we may actually be producing distance.

Chazal speak about this explicitly. The Gemara (Yevamos 65b) teaches: “Just as it is a mitzvah to say something that will be heard, so too it is a mitzvah not to say something that will not be heard.”

Think about how astonishing that is. Not speaking can itself be a mitzvah. The Gemara continues even further. R’ Abba teaches that it is not merely praiseworthy to remain silent in such situations, but an obligation. One is forbidden from speaking words of rebuke, criticism, or instruction when they know the listener is incapable of truly hearing them. Sometimes wisdom is knowing what to say, and sometimes wisdom is knowing what not to say.

This forces us to rethink how we speak to our children, especially our teenagers. It forces us to rethink how we communicate with spouses during moments of anger or hurt. When emotions are inflamed, people are often no longer listening to our words. They are listening to our tone. And at that moment, communication is no longer about information. It is about emotional safety. And if a person does not feel emotionally safe, they will not hear even the truest words in the world.

The Creation of Unity

If communication is ultimately about bringing people together—if humanity itself was created as a ruach memalela, a speaking and relational being—then the essence of communication is not merely self-expression. It is the creation of unity.

Immediately after Adam is created, G-d brings before him every creature in existence. Adam examines them all. The giraffe, too tall. The elephant, not for him. The entire animal kingdom passes before him, yet none are suitable companions. And then Chava is created.

Why is she different? Because she is not merely another creature. She is the only other being capable of genuine reciprocal communication. Adam recognizes in her another inner world. Another self capable of relationship, vulnerability, understanding, and shared meaning. Communication is therefore not simply about talking. It is about joining worlds together. And if that is true, then one of the most important principles in communication is this: make people feel that you are on the same team.

So often, conflict feels like two people sitting across from one another, each trying to pull the line further to their own side. Each person feels the need to win, to defend, to push their agenda harder than the other person pushes theirs. But everything changes the moment the dynamic shifts from “me versus you” to “me and you versus the problem.”

Take parenting as an example.

Every parent today faces difficult questions about technology, smartphones, social media, friendships, relationships, and boundaries. Those are real issues that require real conversations. But the greatest mistake a parent can make is allowing the child to feel that the battle itself is against the parent.

You never want your child to feel: “It’s me and technology against you.” “It’s me and my friends against you.” “It’s me and the person I care about against you.” The child must feel: “My parent is on my side.” A healthy parent communicates, “I may not always get this right. But everything I am saying comes from love, concern, and responsibility for your wellbeing. Help me think through this with you.”

The moment two people begin looking together at a problem instead of staring at one another as the problem, the entire emotional atmosphere changes. I once read a beautiful line by the French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: “Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” That is one of the deepest definitions of communication I have ever encountered.

The challenge, of course, is that the moments when communication matters most are often the very moments when we communicate worst. During conflict, fear, frustration, or disappointment, people stop collaborating and begin defending themselves. But if, even in those moments, two people can look outward together at the issue itself—if they can stand side by side against the problem rather than against one another—then healing becomes possible. And if people genuinely feel that you are with them, not against them, then even difficult truths can be heard.

Beyond the Words

Now let me move to a third principle: understand what people are communicating even when they are incapable of articulating it directly. When G-d commands Moshe Rabbeinu to go to Pharaoh and redeem the Jewish people, Moshe resists. He tells G-d that he cannot do it. And he offers several reasons: “The Jewish people have not listened to me.” “If they will not listen, then certainly Pharaoh will not listen.” “And besides, I have a speech impediment” (Shemos 6:12).

Then, quite suddenly, the Torah interrupts the narrative and launches into an extended genealogy. It begins recounting the descendants of Reuven, Shimon, and Levi, eventually arriving at Moshe and Aharon (ibid. 6:14 – 6:27). Only afterward does the Torah resume the conversation with Pharaoh.

And then something fascinating happens. Moshe again says, “I am of impeded speech, how will Pharaoh listen to me?” (ibid. 6:30). Rashi comments that this is simply the same conversation repeated after the interruption. But there is a difficulty.

The first time Moshe speaks, he gives three reasons: the Jews will not listen. Pharaoh will not listen. And he himself cannot speak properly. The second time, only two remain: His speech impediment and Pharaoh. The Jewish people disappear from the conversation entirely. And furthermore, if this is truly the exact same statement repeated, why does the order change? In the first instance, Moshe Rabbeinu states that Pharoah will not listen and then notes that he has a speech impediment. In the second instance, he reverses it, first stating that he has a speech impediment, and only after noting that Pharoah will not listen.

The answer, perhaps, is profoundly psychological.

The Torah interrupts the story in order to remind us who Moshe is. This is not a detached leader speaking abstractly about a nation. This is a man raised in the home of Amram and Yocheved. He is the child whose mother risked her life for Jewish babies; a brother to Miriam, who stood watch over him in the Nile; and a man who defended Jews instinctively and self-sacrificially long before he was ever appointed leader. This is a man whose entire identity is bound up with the suffering and dignity of his people. Now reread Moshe’s words through that lens. Moshe is not condemning the Jewish people. He is revealing his own insecurity.

He is saying, “If they are not responding to me, perhaps I am the wrong messenger. If things became worse after I arrived, perhaps I have failed them. Perhaps someone else would represent them better than I can.” Moshe’s deepest fear is not rejection. It is inadequacy.

Suddenly, what sounded like criticism of the Jewish people becomes something entirely different: the self-doubt of a leader who cares so deeply that he is terrified of harming the people he loves. This is why context matters so profoundly in communication. Sometimes people say one thing while emotionally communicating another. A teenager may sound angry while communicating fear. A spouse may sound critical while communicating loneliness. A parent may sound controlling while communicating anxiety. If we listen only to words while ignoring the person, we will misunderstand them entirely.

Real communication requires hearing not only what is being said, but where it is coming from. When you understand a person’s history, their fears, their loves, their wounds, and their intentions, you begin to hear the deeper conversation beneath the surface words.

Communication in Dating

I once had a young man introduce me to a girl he had been dating for quite some time. After we met, she asked if she could speak to me privately. “Rabbi,” she said, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” “Of course,” I said. “What’s going on?” She looked at me and said, “I’m ending the relationship.” My heart sank. “Why? What happened? You two seem so right for each other.” “He clearly doesn’t love me,” she said matter-of-factly. “He can’t commit.” Now my heart broke—not because she wanted to leave, but because I knew she had misunderstood him entirely.

You see, this young man’s problem was not commitment. His problem was fear.

He had grown up watching his mother emotionally dismantle his father long before the marriage itself officially ended. He had witnessed, firsthand, the fragility of commitment, the pain of betrayal, and the devastation that can occur when trust collapses inside a home. But she did not know any of that. All she saw was hesitation. And so she interpreted his hesitation as indifference.

I asked her for one week. “Please,” I said, “just trust me for one week.” She agreed.

I went back to him and said, “You and I both know why you haven’t asked her yet. But she doesn’t know. She is reading your silence as lack of love, but she has no idea that when you look at her, a part of you is terrified. A part of you is wondering whether history will repeat itself. A part you fears reliving what you watched growing up.” For the first time, he was able to articulate what had until then remained trapped inside him.

And within that week, they became engaged. Today, they are married.

This is one of the great lessons in communication. Before reacting to what someone says, ask yourself who is saying it. What is their history? What wounds do they carry? What fears are speaking beneath the words? Does this statement align with the person they have consistently shown themselves to be?

People will sometimes come to me furious over a single sentence: “My mother said this.” “My father said that.” “My spouse spoke to me this way.”

I often ask them: “In your entire life, have these people done anything other than love you? Have they not sacrificed for you, supported you, cared for you?” Usually the answer is yes. And if so, then perhaps the entire history of the relationship should force us to reconsider the interpretation of this one painful moment.

The Mishnah teaches: “Hevei dan et kol ha’adam lekaf zechut—Judge every person favorably” (Avot 1:6). Notably the Mishnah’s words can be read as, “Et kol ha’adam—Judge the whole person.” Not that one sentence or one moment. Do not look at merely one isolated interaction. Judge the entirety of who they are. Who have they been to you? What have they consistently shown you? What are you prepared to throw away over this one exchange?

From Despair to Comfort

Communication is difficult, and because it is difficult, people often despair.

But Shlomo HaMelech gives us a most beautiful insight into human relationships: “As water reflects a face back to a face, so too the heart of one person reflects to another” (Mishlei 27:19). When you look into water, you see your reflection. There is clarity and recognition. Somehow, hearts possess a similar ability.

Human beings communicate far more deeply than words alone. The Shelah Hakadosh quotes an extraordinary teaching: “Any word that truly emerges from the heart enters another heart. But words that emerge only from the mouth do not even penetrate the ear.”

One of the sages explained that he would test the sincerity of a person’s words by examining himself afterward. If what the other person said penetrated deeply into his own heart, then he knew those words had come from a genuine place. But if the words remained superficial, he knew they had never truly emerged from the speaker’s heart in the first place.

There is something profoundly comforting about this idea.

Even when we do not find the perfect words, love still communicates itself. A parent may phrase something imperfectly, yet if the child genuinely feels the love behind the words, the deeper message survives. A spouse may stumble in expression, yet if sincerity and care are present, the heart still recognizes the truth.

Words matter enormously. But hearts matter even more.

So speak to your children, to your spouse, to your friends. But even if the words themselves are imperfect, if they emerge genuinely from the heart, they will ultimately find their way into another heart as well.