Rabbi Moshe Weinberger

Moshe Is Not Smoking

There was a great tzaddik who I was privileged to see many times: the Bobover Rebbe, Reb Shlomo Halberstam zt”l. After surviving the horrors of the Holocaust, the Bobover Rebbe arrived in America with virtually nothing. He came with his son, Reb Naftali, and a small group of chassidim.

In those early years, he lived on Manhattan's Upper West Side. The Bobover community had not yet been rebuilt and there was no large beis medrash. Often, they could barely gather a minyan.

One Friday evening, as Shabbos approached, it became clear that they were still missing a tenth man. The Rebbe turned to his son and said, "Go out and find a Jew." His son went out into the streets searching for a Jewish face. Eventually, he noticed an older man. There was something about him, perhaps it was a look familiar to so many Holocaust survivors. It was a face that seemed to carry the weight of unspeakable suffering. "Yid," he called out, "would you join us? We need you for a minyan."

The man initially refused. But after some persuasion, he agreed. When he arrived, he said, "Since I'm already here, I should tell you that I know how to lead the prayers. If you don't mind, I would like to daven from the amud." The Rebbe smiled. "Let him daven," he said warmly. And daven he did. His Kabbalas Shabbos was beautiful, his voice filling with emotion and pouring out from the depths of his neshama.

The following week he returned. And then again the week after. Slowly, the minyan began to grow. Then one Friday night, he didn’t show up. The Rebbe looked around the room and immediately noticed his absence. Turning to his son, he made a request. "I want you to find Moshe. I don’t want to begin davening without him." "How am I supposed to find him?” asked his son. “This is Manhattan, not Bobov." The Rebbe simply repeated, "Go look for him." So he went.

A short distance away there was a park. And there he found Moshe, sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette, as if the hour was not bothering him in the least. It was already Shabbos. Shocked, he hurried back. "Rebbe," he said, "Moshe is smoking. It’s already Shabbos and he is sitting in the park smoking!" The Rebbe looked at him. "No, he isn’t smoking." His son stared back, flustered. "Tatty, I just saw him smoking!" The Rebbe shook his head. "No, no, no." "But I saw it with my own eyes!" his son persisted yet again.

The Rebbe answered. "It is not Moshe who is smoking. It is the German who is smoking. Moshe is not smoking." Those around him did not understand. What did the Rebbe mean?

The Rebbe’s comment soon became clear. The Rebbe was looking deeper than the surface. He understood that this holy Jew had been shattered by the Holocaust and his life had been invaded by unimaginable pain and trauma. Deep inside, he remained a precious Jewish soul. Deep inside, he remained connected to Shabbos and was the same Jew who stood before the amud, singing Lecha Dodi with tears in his eyes. It was just that there was another force living inside him; a force created by years of suffering, loss, terror and devastation. "The German is smoking," the Rebbe had said.

The Rebbe sent them back to find him.

But by then he had disappeared. Years passed and the community grew, and the Bobover dynasty flourished once again.

One day, many years later, the Rebbe was sitting with his chassidim when an elderly Jew entered the room. He approached excitedly and said, "Rebbe! Do you remember me?" The Rebbe looked at him carefully. The man was almost unrecognizable. He wore a shtreimel, a long white beard framing his face. He looked like a devoted chassid. Suddenly, the Rebbe's eyes lit up. "Moshe!" The man smiled. "Moshe, the baal tefillah!"

The Rebbe rose from his chair and embraced him. Then he turned to his son and said, "Do you remember? I told you then. It wasn't Moshe who was smoking. It was the German inside him."

All of us have something inside that prevents us from becoming who we truly wish to be. For one person, it may be fear. For another, addiction. For a third, disappointment. For someone else, trauma.

Every person has some "German" within, a weight that pulls him away from his true self. Those struggles and obstacles are real. But they are not the deepest truth of who we are. Beneath the layers of pain, habits, failures and disappointments, there remains a pure soul. There remains the person Hashem created us to be. The task of life is to reconnect with that person, to uncover that person and to believe in him or her. When we finally reach that deepest place within ourselves, the darkness that has held us back begins to lose its power.

The German disappears and the true self emerges.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

The Light of a Candle

Once there was a wealthy nobleman who maintained a close friendship with a simple laborer.

One day, the laborer invited the nobleman to dine in his humble home. Determined to honor his distinguished guest, he spent the entire day preparing, cleaning every corner of his modest cottage, rearranging his sparse furnishings, setting the table as elegantly as his limited means allowed, and lighting several candles for warmth and welcoming. As evening approached, the laborer stood by the window, eagerly awaiting the nobleman's arrival.

In the distance, he noticed a glow rising above the horizon. At first he thought it was the lingering light of the setting sun. Yet as darkness descended, the glow only intensified.

Suddenly, he saw the nobleman approaching over the hill, accompanied by a large entourage of servants carrying blazing torches. The flames were so strong that they illuminated the countryside as though it were daytime. The laborer looked back at the candles he had arranged so carefully.

Moments earlier they had seemed warm and beautiful. Now they appeared puny and insignificant. Their tiny flames were swallowed by the brilliance of the torches. Embarrassed, he quickly extinguished the candles and hid the candlesticks away.

A short while later, the nobleman entered the cottage. To his surprise, the room was dark. "Were you not expecting me tonight?" he asked. "Of course I was," replied the laborer. "Then why are there no lights?" "There were," the laborer answered softly. "But when I saw the magnificent torches carried by your servants, my candles seemed so small and insignificant that I was ashamed of them. So I put them away."

The nobleman smiled. Immediately, he dismissed his attendants and sent away the torches. Then he turned to his friend and said, "Tonight, I wish to dine only by the light of your candles, so that you may know how precious they are to me."

This simple story captures a profound spiritual truth.

How can the little light that we generate through our mitzvos compare with the infinite light of Hashem? How can our acts of kindness measure against the kindness of the One who created the universe? What significance can our small efforts possibly have before the Creator of heaven and earth?

This, in a sense, was Moshe Rabbeinu's question.

In last week's Parsha, Moshe enters the Mishkan and encounters the overwhelming radiance of the Shechinah. The Divine Presence fills the sanctuary with a light unlike anything found in this world. Against such brilliance, what purpose could there be in the light of the Menorah? What difference could a few earthly flames make in a place already illuminated by the presence of G-d?

Hashem's answer is contained in the opening word of the Parsha: "Beha'aloscha." Usually translated as "when you kindle," the word can also be understood as "when you elevate." Hashem was teaching Moshe a lesson that extends far beyond the Menorah itself. The value of a mitzvah does not lie in the amount of light it produces. It lies in the fact that it is the will of G-d.

The Menorah was not needed because G-d lacked light. The Creator of the universe does not require illumination from human hands (see Shabbos 22b). Rather, the mitzvah was given so that through the act of lighting, we would be elevated.

Every mitzvah works in the same way. When we give tzedakah, Hashem does not need our money. When we daven, Hashem does not need our pleas. When we study Torah, Hashem does not need our novel insights. The mitzvos were given for us. They are opportunities to draw us closer to Him, moments in which finite human beings touch eternity. The 613 mitzvos are pathways to closeness.

And so, whenever we are tempted to think that our efforts are too small, our prayers too weak, or our acts of goodness too insignificant, we should remember the nobleman and the laborer.

Hashem does not ask us to rival His light. He asks us to kindle our own. And when we do, He cherishes it more than we could imagine.

Rabbi Moshe Aharon Friedman

Knowing What Matters

The story is told of a prospective convert who came before the Hillel and asked to be taught the entire Torah while standing on one foot. The response he received was: "Ma d'alach sani l'chavrach lo sa'avid"— That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow" (Shabbos 31a). But perhaps there is another layer hidden within those words.

Read by way of remez (homiletic allusion), one might understand "Ma d'alach sani"—whatever is detrimental, "L'chavrach"—to your connection and relationship with Hashem, "Lo sa'avid"—do not do it. Whatever weakens your bond with Hakadosh Baruch Hu, avoid it. That is the essence of sur mera, turning away from evil.

But there is also the second half of the equation: aseh tov, doing good.

The Gemara (Gittin 65a) discusses the age at which a child is considered mature enough for certain halachic responsibilities. One of the signs of maturity is that he understands the difference between a pebble and a nut. A pebble has no intrinsic value, while a nut contains something precious within.

At first glance, this seems like a strange definition of maturity. But perhaps the Gemara can also be understood to be providing a life definition.

The challenge of becoming a gadol is not merely a challenge for children. It is the challenge of an entire lifetime. The mark of a mature person is the ability to distinguish between what is empty and what is meaningful, between what merely attracts attention and what truly possesses value. When a person develops that clarity, he becomes a gadol.

And once he knows what matters, many struggles cease to be struggles. A person who genuinely understands his own greatness and purpose no longer experiences every temptation as a major test.

Imagine sitting on an airplane. The passenger next to you is engrossed in entertainment that does nothing to elevate him. You, though, are not tempted. It’s not because of extraordinary self-control, but because you simply have no interest. Why would you trade something precious for something trivial? You know the difference between a pebble and a nut. You know what contains value. "Vayigbah libo b'darchei Hashem—His heart is elevated in the ways of Hashem” (Divrei HaYamim II 17:6). You sees yourself as belonging to something greater.

There is a beautiful story told about a chassid who once traveled to Paris. Before his departure, the Imrei Emes gave him an unusual request. "In Paris," the Rebbe said, "there are expensive cigarettes that can only be purchased there. Please bring me a package when you return." The chassid agreed.

Once he arrived in Paris, however, he completely forgot. It was only after returning to Poland that he remembered the Rebbe's request. Feeling terrible, he searched throughout Warsaw until he found the same brand of cigarettes. They were difficult to obtain and very expensive, but eventually he purchased them and brought them to the Rebbe. "Rebbe," he said, "I forgot your request while I was in Paris. But Baruch Hashem, I found the cigarettes here and brought them to you."

The Imrei Emes smiled knowingly. "I do not need your cigarettes from Warsaw," he replied. "I wanted your cigarettes from Paris." The chassid looked confused, until the Rebbe explained. "What I wanted was that while you were in Paris, you would remember that you have a Rebbe. I wanted that while you were surrounded by Paris, you would remember that Hakadosh Baruch Hu is with you and you would remember who you are."

The cigarettes were never the point. The remembrance was.

This idea sheds light on a well-known Gemara (Menachos 44a) about the man who was saved from sin by his tzitzis. It was his tzitzis which protected him and prevented him from committing a grave aveira. The question is: what gave the tzitzis such power?

The Sar Shalom of Belz offers a beautiful insight. Tzitzis contain thirty-two strings altogether, comprised of eight strings on each of the four corners. Thirty-two corresponds to the numerical value of lev, heart. A mitzvah performed with one's whole heart possesses extraordinary power. Technically, if some of the strings tear, one may still fulfill the mitzvah according to halachah and the tzitzis remain kosher. But the Sar Shalom suggested that the special protective quality emerges when the mitzvah is performed with the full thirty-two, with the whole heart. He offered a remarkable remez.

Chazal coined the phrase: "Lo dibrah Torah ela k'neged yetzer hara—The Torah only spoke against the yetzer hara (evil inclination)” (Kiddushin 21b; see Rashi, Bamidbar 21:11).The Sar Shalom commented that there is another way to read it too. "Lo" equals thirty-one in numerical value. Thirty-one strings may still satisfy the technical requirements of the Torah. However, "Ela" contains the gematria (numerical value) of thirty-two. It is only thirty-two which contains the power to stand opposite the yetzer hara.

Thirty-two is the full heart. Thirty-two is complete involvement and investment.

When a person serves Hashem with his whole heart, he gains a powerful protection against temptation. Ultimately, the battle against the yetzer hara is not won merely by saying no. It is won by saying yes to a greater purpose: your relationship with Hashem. For the person who knows the difference between the pebble and the nut, between the trivial and the eternal, his heart fully and naturally moves toward the highest spiritual aspirations and touches the Heavens.

And it is such a magnetized draw and connection to Hashem which becomes no less than his greatest protection, even in his gravest hour.

Rabbi Joey Haber

Tried and Tested

You know the feeling. Everything seems to be working. Your family is doing well and your career is moving forward. Your relationships are healthy and you find yourself smiling. And then a thought enters your mind: "This is too good." "Something bad must be around the corner." "The minute I became happy, I jinxed it."

As irrational as it sounds, many people quietly live this way. They are afraid of happiness because they believe happiness attracts tragedy. They are afraid of success because they assume success guarantees failure. They are afraid of enjoying life because they think that somewhere, somehow, they will have to pay for it.

But this perspective misunderstands the nature of a test. The Abarbanel offers a profound insight.

He explains that there are two primary purposes for a Divine test. The first is similar to the Ramban's famous explanation. A test takes something that exists in potential and brings it into reality. As long as those qualities remain theoretical, they are not fully realized. A challenge creates the opportunity for greatness to emerge from potential into action.

But then the Abarbanel adds a second reason. "She’yir’u bnei hador—So that the generation may see.” Sometimes a person is tested not only for himself but for everyone around him. There are moments when the way someone responds to adversity becomes an inspiration for countless others.

Think about Avraham Avinu. His tests did not merely shape him. They shaped humanity. Think about Holocaust survivors who rebuilt families after unimaginable loss. Think about people who faced illness with dignity. Think about individuals who maintained faith during moments that would have shattered others. Their greatness did not remain private. It became a lesson, a model and a source of strength for future generations.