Rabbi's Blog

 

Hi Friends, 
 
Whether you were a frequent flyer on Spirit (I wasn't) or a frequent flyer at all (I am not that, either), you can't deny the allure that was in the Spirit ads. "$19 flights to Orlando!" The only thing they forgot to mention was that the seatbelt will cost you an additional $9.99, and using the restroom will cost you another $19.99...

Was Spirit Airlines good for the airline industry? The jury is still out. Some will claim that Spirit is to blame for all the ridiculous fees. Before Spirit, a flight included a free carry-on, free luggage, and, of course, refreshments. Now, in many airlines, basic tickets include basically nothing.

But I see it differently. Yes, all the fees are annoying. And yes, the airplane felt like a flying bus, but Spirit gave people who couldn't afford it before the ability to fly. The other airlines essentially told you: if you want to fly, you have to do it with all the bells and whistles. Spirit said otherwise: a hard chair on a plane is still a plane.

On a SpiritUal level (get it??), many people fall into the same trap as the traditional airlines. They view the connection to G-d as an all-or-nothing proposition. I've heard so many people tell me, "I will not put on Tefillin, I am not religious," or "Rabbi, I don't keep Shabbat, so I won't be coming to Shul," and so on.

If you are one of those, remember: flying is flying. And unlike the shabby airplanes of Spirit, every Mitzvah is beautiful, every Mitzvah makes your soul soar, every Mitzvah connects you to G-d in ways that will bring great joy to your life.

So, should you do one Mitzvah even if you are not ready to commit to all of them? Absolutely: that's the Spirit.

( Thank you  Rabbi Mendy Kaminker for sharing) 

Good Shabboos/Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yitzi Hein

Dear Friends,

This week, Dr. Edith Eger left this world. She was 98 years old.

But who was this well-known Jewish woman?

She was a teenager in Hungary when her family was put on a train to Auschwitz. On the very first day, her parents were taken from her. And that same night, she was forced to dance for the evil Dr. Josef Mengele!

While she danced, her mind went somewhere else entirely. She imagined herself on a stage. She heard music. She held onto something from before.  She knew exactly where she was. But there was one place inside her they couldn't reach, and she refused to let go of it.

She called it the space between what happens to you and how you respond to it. That space, she said, is where freedom lives.

After surviving the war, she went on to become a psychologist, spending decades helping thousands of people find that same place inside themselves — people imprisoned not by barbed wire, but by grief, trauma, and the stories they couldn't stop telling themselves. She wrote about it in her memoir, The Choice. (The title alone is the whole message!)

I never met her. But reading her works and after listening to interviews this week, something felt deeply familiar — like ideas I had encountered before, in a different language. And perhaps that's why in recent years she ended up speaking at dozens of Chabad Houses around the world.

The soul is untouchable. You are not your circumstances. You can choose how to react and live. These are essential ideas of Judaism and Chabad Chassidism teachings.

She lived to 98. And from what I understand, she never stopped teaching.

Today is the little-known Jewish holiday of Pesach Sheni ("Second Passover"). And I can't think of a more perfect day to be writing about her.

If anyone ever had the right to say, "I am a victim of circumstance," it was her. And yet she refused to live there. And yet she refused to live there. Not because she denied what happened — she spoke about it openly, painfully, honestly, much of her life. But she made a distinction that sat at the core of everything she believed: what happened to me is real. But what I become because of it is still open.

That is also the essence of Pesach Sheni (The Second Passover). 

When the Jewish people left Egypt, G-d instructed them to bring the Paschal offering on the 14th of Nissan. But there were those who were ritually impure — unable to participate through no fault of their own. And still they came to Moses and asked: does this mean we're left out? Is the story already written for us? G-d's answer was to create an entirely new holiday. One month later, a full second chance — Matzah, Maror, the whole thing.

While the practical Pesach Sheni was only observed in Temple Times, the Rebbe loved its timeless message and would repeat it again and again: it's never too late. You are not doomed to repeat. You are not stuck. (You can hear the Rebbe saying the words here)

We all have places where it feels like the story is already written. This is how I was raised. This is just my personality. This is the mistake I made.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard "Rabbi, it's too late for me." Too late to begin this particular Mitzvah. Too late to incorporate faith in my life.  Too late to become a certain type of spouse or parent.  Too late to join a strong Jewish community.  

Pesach Sheni was given to us specifically to answer that.

As a mentor once told me " There are those who debate whether the glass is half full or half empty. And then there are those who realize the glass is refillable!" Lchaim!

Today is the annual reminder that wherever you are, whatever you're carrying, whatever feels finished — it isn't!
Good Shabbos/Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yitzi Hein

Oh, and many have a tradition to eat some Matzah today :)

Dear Friends,
 

In this week’s parshiyot, Tazria–Metzora, we read about tzaraat—often mistranslated as leprosy, but in truth a spiritual affliction that could appear on a person’s skin, clothing, and even their home.
 

Maimonides and other Sages explain that it often came as a result of lashon hara—speech that creates distance between people. A person who was otherwise spiritually refined could, through careless words, introduce separation where there should have been connection.
 

The process itself is striking.
 

First, the sign would appear on the walls of the home.
If the message wasn’t taken to heart, it would move to one’s clothing.
And if still ignored, it would finally appear on the person themselves—requiring them to step away from the community and spend time in quarantine until they would address and repair the inner blemish and become pure again (there was a whole process for that too).
 

It sounds almost like a nightmare—your very surroundings turning against you.
 

But the Torah reveals something unexpected.
 

When the walls of a home were broken because of tzaraat, hidden treasures were sometimes found—wealth that the Canaanites had concealed in the walls before the Jewish people entered the land.
 

What seemed like a punishment (and it was) was also an opportunity to uncover a hidden treasure.
 

And perhaps that is the deeper rhythm of life itself.
 

Sometimes a breakdown is not the end—it is the beginning of a breakthrough. A moment that cracks something open within us, allowing for self-discovery and new, unparalleled opportunities we could not have accessed otherwise.
 

That is the essence of teshuvah—return, a realignment with our truest self—not just repairing what went wrong, but uncovering something deeper, and finding within the break a hidden treasure.
 

And when we begin to see what happens in our lives not as something happening to us, but as something happening for us—a message and invitation from G-d to grow—then the breakthrough comes faster, clearer, and with deeper impact.
 

Wishing you a Good Shabbos/Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yitzi

 
Dear Friends,

This week’s Parsha Ki Sisa recounts one of the most dramatic and painful moments in the Torah.

Just weeks after standing at Mount Sinai and hearing G-d speak, the Jewish people panic when Moses delays returning from the mountain. In their confusion and fear they create the Golden Calf, and a terrible mistake unfolds. It becomes one of the great spiritual failures of our history.

In the aftermath, G-d describes the Jewish people with a striking phrase:

“I have seen this people, and behold, it is a stiff-necked people.” (Exodus 32:9)

At first glance, that does not sound flattering. A stiff neck suggests stubbornness—an unwillingness to bend, to listen, or to change direction.

But later in the very same Parsha something remarkable happens. When Moses pleads with G-d for forgiveness, he actually uses that same description as part of his argument:

“…for it is a stiff-necked people; forgive our iniquity and our sin, and take us as Your inheritance.” (Exodus 34:9)

Moses seems to be saying, "Yes, we are stubborn." But that same stubbornness can also be our strength.

Because every human trait has two sides. A shadow side and a light side.

The shadow side of stubbornness is obvious. It can make a person refuse to admit mistakes, resist guidance, or cling to something they should let go of. That stubbornness played a role in the tragedy of the Golden Calf.

But stubbornness also has a light side. It can mean resilience. It can mean loyalty. It can mean refusing to abandon what is sacred even when the world pressures you to.

Jewish history is filled with that kind of positive stubbornness.

Empires tried to erase us. Cultures tried to absorb us. Ideas tried to replace our traditions. Yet generation after generation of Jews remained Jewish—sometimes quietly, sometimes heroically, but always with that same refusal to let go.

Parents insisted their children learn Torah. Families kept Shabbat even when it was difficult. Jews held on to their identity even when it cost them.

That is the light side of being a stiff-necked people.

And perhaps that is the deeper lesson of the Parsha. The goal is not to erase our personality traits. The goal is to channel them.

The same energy that can lead to mistakes can also lead to greatness when directed in the right way.

A stubborn people can also be a deeply loyal people.
A people who fall far can also be a people who rise high again.

And that, in many ways, is the story of the Jewish people.

Wishing you a wonderful Shabbat,

Shabbat Shalom ,
Rabbi Yitzi & Rishi Hein

Imagine this.

You are a newly freed slave.

For years you owned nothing. Your labor wasn’t yours. Your time wasn’t yours. Your future wasn’t yours.

And then, almost overnight, you walk out of Egypt carrying gold and silver. The Torah tells us the Jews left Egypt with great wealth. For the first time, you actually have something.

No house yet.
No land yet.
Just the uncertainty of the great desert — and pockets full of treasure.

And then G-d instructs Moshe to tell the people to build the first Mishkan(Temple), a house for the Divine:

If you were there and being asked to give to a brand new building fund- how would you react?

Dear Friends,

After last week’s blockbuster Parsha — the thunder, lightning, revelation at Sinai — you would think the sequel would stay in the heavens a bit.

Instead, the Torah comes right down to earth.
 

This week’s Parsha is Mishpatim — which translates as 'civil laws'.
 

How does G-d start teaching the Jewish people after the revelation at Sinai?
Not with the more spiritual mitzvot like prayer.

Not opening with the Temple's ritual commandments or offerings.
 

Instead, right after Sinai, the Torah turns to the task of building a just society.

Basics like:
Damages.
Loans.
Courts.
Responsibility.
(Read more here)

A few examples:

• No bribery —“You shall not accept a bribe, for a bribe blinds the clear-sighted…” (Exodus 23:8)
• Return lost objects — “If you encounter your enemy’s ox… you shall surely return it to him.” (Exodus 23:4)
• Protect the vulnerable — “You shall not oppress any widow or orphan.” (Exodus 22:21)

It feels almost too procedural. Dare I say...a tad pedestrian?

But that’s exactly the point.
 

Judaism is not only about spiritual connection.
 

Sinai was never meant to remain a spiritual high. It was meant to shape how we do business, how we speak, how we handle money, how we treat people.

Holiness is not only in prayer. It is in honesty. It is in fairness. It is in quiet integrity.
 

The test of Sinai is not what you felt. It is how you live. How we live.
 

On that note, I have two special invitations for you:

1. Shabbat of Blessing TOMORROW - Join us for our monthly Shabbat of Blessing TOMORROW as we explore some of the ethical laws in this week’s Parsha and how they guide real life. Followed by a special kiddush. (Reply to this email if you’d like to come).

2. Study Daily Rambam — Begins This Sunday

If you’ve ever wanted a broader, clear grasp of Jewish law and Torah ideas (beyond a couple of nuggets in this email :))— you are in luck!!
 

Starting this Sunday (Feb. 15), we begin the 3-year cycle of the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah — a systematic summary of the entire Oral Law.
 

In just 20–30 minutes a day, you gain exposure to the full structure of Jewish life — beliefs, ethics, holidays, prayer, business law, family life — all organized and practical.
 

Download the free Rambam App and join our Rochester Rambam WhatsApp group: All info is at JewishPittsford.com/DailyRambam

Remember: The Sinai Experience wasn’t meant to stay in the clouds.

Let’s bring it into our daily lives.
 

Good Shabbos/Shabbat Shalom,

Dear Friend,

Story: Toward the end of the Second Temple era, there were two great Torah leaders.

Shammai headed one academy. He was brilliant, precise, and uncompromising. Torah, in his view, demanded full seriousness and preparation.

Hillel led another academy — no less learned, but known for patience, warmth, and knowing how to open a door. 

A non-Jew came to Shammai and said: “Convert me — but only if you can teach me the entire Torah while I stand on one foot.”

To Shammai, this sounded like reducing something sacred into a stunt. He sent him away.

The man didn’t give up. He went to Hillel and asked the exact same question.

Hillel didn’t hear mockery. He heard someone searching for a beginning. So Hillel said: “What is hateful to you, do not do to another. This is the entire Torah. The rest is explanation — now go and learn.”

Hillel understood that the man needed the essence of Judaism first. It's how people learn: First the big picture. Then the details.

The Talmud (Pesachim 3b) teaches that this is the Torah’s model for teaching: "A person should always teach his student in concise language.") start with concise clarity, and only later expand and explain.

But this idea goes way back. As a matter of fact, our sages explain that this is how G-d taught the Torah at Mt. Sinai.

At Sinai, G-d first said the Ten Commandments in a single utterance, and only afterward repeated each commandment slowly, one by one. (Midrash; Mechilta on Yitro)

That is a message from this week's Parshat Yitro. And like many times, this idea is especially meaningful this week.

Why?

This week begins the three-year Rambam cycle — one chapter a day of Maimonides Magnum Opus Mishneh Torah.
In just 20–25 minutes a day (by listening or reading) , you gain a sweeping, structured overview of all Jewish law and mitzvot.

The essence of Judaism first. The details over time. 

To make it accessible, there is an amazing simple new app call "the Rambam app" available on iOS or Android by clicking here

And to make this local, I’m starting a Rochester Rambam WhatsApp group, where we’ll discuss the daily chapter and answer questions together.

👉 Join our whatsapp group here: https://chat.whatsapp.com/IqXvy5acEnUC8hGip5504d

Looking forward to help myself and everyone expand our horizon of Jewish knowledge!

Good Shabbos, 

Rabbi Yitzi

Dear Friends,
 

This past week was a Jewish food week — and fittingly, this week’s Parshah Beshalach introduces one of famous Jewish biblical foods of all time (even before there was Kosher)
 

Our Up Close & Kosher event was truly an eye-opener (and a mouth-opener too!). Fifty people enjoyed Naf and Anna Hanau’s thoughtful cooking demo — a real labor of love for high-quality kosher food. Rabbi Mammon led a clear and engaging Q&A on kosher supervision, and everyone received a copy of Going Kosher in 30 Days, filled with practical, doable steps for kosher living. (If you’d like a complimentary copy to pick up from Chabad Pittsford, just reply to this email — limited supplies available.)

Food appears powerfully in this week’s Torah portion with the story of the manna.

What was the manna?

The manna (in Hebrew, מן, more accurately pronounced mon) was the miraculous food that fell from heaven each day during the forty years between the Exodus from Egypt and the entry into the Land of Israel, sustaining our ancestors throughout their journey in the desert.
 

When the manna fell each morning, people went out and gathered it. Some collected a lot, others only a little. But when they returned home and measured what they had gathered, something remarkable happened: each person ended up with exactly one omer — precisely what they needed for that day. The effort was real, but the outcome was not determined by how much one grabbed. The final measure came from G-d.
 

The manna could not be saved from one day to the next. Any attempt to store it spoiled. There were no reserves, no stockpiles, no illusion of control. Each morning required fresh trust that G-d would provide again today what He provided yesterday.
 

And then came Shabbat. On Friday morning, a double portion appeared. Moshe explained that it was for Shabbat, when no manna would fall. When G-d asks us to stop and rest, He also takes responsibility for our needs. That is why we place two loaves of bread on the Shabbat table — a weekly reminder that our livelihood ultimately comes from above.
 

Ok, but why does the Torah give so much description for a one-time historical miracle? Manna raining from heaven isn't happening anytime soon.

The answer: Manna was more than a historical food. It is a powerful lesson for today as work in the natural realm to put bread on our tables.

Manna is a reminder that effort matters — we are meant to go out and gather. But also a reminder that the results are not fully in our control, and that real calm comes when we leave space for trust.
 

This week, perhaps we can try something simple:
to work with a little less pressure on ourselves,
to let go of the need to control every outcome,
and to live with a little more faith — trusting that G-d will provide what we and our families truly need.
 

And then we will have a real Shabbat Shalom, a Shabbat of peace and tranquility from the whole week.

Shabbat Shalom/Good Shabbos
Rabbi Yitzi Hein

Dear Friends,

A 2013 Pew study found something striking: the most widely practiced Jewish ritual in America isn’t synagogue attendance or even Yom Kippur fasting — it’s the Passover Seder.

Put simply, out of every ten Jews:
about two attend synagogue monthly,
about five fast on Yom Kippur,
but seven sit down at a Passover Seder.

Why?

Short answer: it's because the Seder doesn’t live in the synagogue. It lives at home.

This phenomenon shows that knowingly or unknowingly, Jews are drawn to Judaism at home.

To understand this, we go to this week's Parsha Bo for the very first Seder. On the night before the Exodus, the Jews were commanded to gather as families and eat the Paschal lamb with matzah and bitter herbs inside their homes. They were also told to smear the blood on the doorposts and lintel and not to leave until morning, so they wouldn't be harmed by the Angel of Death in the plague of the slaying of the first-born (Exodus 12).

I get the Passover seder part, but why were they commanded to smear blood on the doorway? Wasn't there a better way to signal a Jewish home?

(Imagine how strange that sounds — going into Sherwin-Williams for a paintbrush and a quart of blood to paint your doorframe...)

Some commentators say the 'blood-on-doorposts' was to make a bold declaration to the Egyptian masters that we are a Jewish family fearlessly fulfilling our G-d's command.

However, Rashi notes, the blood was placed on the inside of the doorposts. In other words, the blood of the first commandment is not for the outside world to see, but for the Jewish family to see. The Torah’s message was profound. The doorway marked the boundary between inside and outside. By sanctifying it, the Jewish home itself became holy.

Redemption didn’t begin in the street.
It began at home.

And that is also why kosher matters.

Kosher isn’t just a set of dietary rules. It is Judaism’s way of ensuring that holiness continues to enter our homes — into our kitchens, onto our tables, and into everyday life.

That is the spirit of Kosher Awareness Month. And it is why next week’s Up Close & Kosher event is so timely — a chance to explore what kosher really means today and how ancient Jewish values shape modern food choices and recipes

I invite you to come take a closer look, pressure-free.

Come see how you can bring that seder feeling of Jewish-identity hominess to your table - 365 days a year.

Good Shabbos/Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yitzi Hein

Dear Friends,

As we move from Genesis into Exodus in the Torah Readings, the Torah itself changes tone. We move from the stories of great individuals to the story of a people. That shift isn’t just literary—it’s philosophical. It introduces one of Judaism’s core lenses for understanding life: exile and redemption.
 

Rabbi Adin Even-Yisrael Steinsaltz explains that exile in Judaism is not simply about geography. It is a state of dissonance—a sense that something is fundamentally not where it belongs. A person can live comfortably in exile, even successfully. One can adapt, advance, and make peace with the situation. But, as Rav Steinsaltz teaches, one who relates to exile only as a personal inconvenience will never leave Egypt.
 

And that word Egypt is telling. In Hebrew, Mitzrayim is related to meitzarim—constraints and limitations. Egypt is not only a place on the map; it represents the limiting situations, assumptions, and frameworks we find ourselves stuck within. Leaving Egypt means breaking free from what constrains our growth and sense of purpose.
 

Redemption, therefore, is not a lifestyle upgrade. It is a revolution. Judaism refuses to settle for better conditions; it calls for a reordered reality—one rooted in belonging and meaning.
 

In his letters and personal counsel, the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson often emphasized that real change doesn’t come from learning how to live more comfortably within a problem, but from stepping back and asking whether the entire framework needs to be rethought. Sometimes discomfort itself is the message.
 

A Pew study found that about 70% of Jews celebrate a Passover Seder. In a fractured Jewish world, that’s extraordinary. The Seder remains one of the most binding Jewish practices—even in 2026.
 

At its core, the Seder fulfills the Torah’s commandment:

“You shall tell your child on that day: This is because of what G-d did for me when I left Egypt.” (Exodus 13:8)
 

But many are surprised to learn that the Exodus was never meant to be remembered only one night a year.

The Torah commands us:

“So that you shall remember the day you left Egypt all the days of your life.” (Deuteronomy 16:3)
 

That line is why the Exodus appears in our daily prayers. Judaism insists that freedom is not just history—it is about reorienting our daily consciousness.
 

Which brings us full circle: remembering the Exodus each day is meant to keep us from growing comfortable in Mitzrayim—in our limitations. The goal is not to manage Egypt better, but to leave it.
 

Questions to Ponder:

• Where in my life have I adapted to an “Egypt” instead of challenging it?

• What might redemption look like—not as comfort, but as real transformation?

If these questions stirred something for you, I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to reply.
 

Good Shabbos/Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yitzi Hein

Dear Friends,

The French philosopher Blaise Pascal (1623-1662)  taught that one of the most compelling signs of Divine providence is the Jewish people themselves. A nation exiled from its land, scattered across continents, pressured to disappear—yet remaining distinct, faithful, and enduring—does not fit the normal patterns of history.  

Along these lines, this week's Torah portion VaYechi shares a core Jewish blessing and value that helps make the miraculous Jewish existence unfold.

In last week's Torah portion, we witnessed Jacob’s reunion with Joseph in Egypt. It was twenty-two years in the making and was tearful and joyful. Jacob finally knew Joseph was alive and knew he had remained faithful to the Hebrew/Jewish ideals.

But this was only the beginning.

When Joseph introduced his Egyptian wife and the two sons born to him in Egypt, this was entirely new for Jacob. One can imagine his hesitation as he asked, “Who are they, Joseph?”—and his relief and joy when he learned that Joseph had married according to Jewish law and that his sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, had been raised Jewishly, with faith and identity intact.

Years later before his passing, Jacob made a choice that would echo through Jewish history. Of all his grandchildren, he chose these two—Diaspora-born children—to become the model blessing for every Jewish child, still used today before Shabbat and Yom Kippur:

“May G-d make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.”

That choice is striking. These were the only grandchildren born outside the Land of Israel, raised in a foreign culture, surrounded by values not their own. Why not choose grandchildren raised in the holiness of Israel, immersed in Judaism from birth?

Because Jacob knew what was coming.

G-d had already promised him, “Ufaratzta yamah v’kedmah, tzafonah v’negba”—that his descendants, the Jewish people, would spread outward, west and east, north and south, across the entire earth. Jewish destiny would not remain confined to the Land of Israel. It would also unfold across continents, cultures, and centuries.

The Jewish future would largely be lived in exile. Jews would need to know that Judaism can not only survive outside Israel—but flourish. Not only under the presence of a patriarch like Jacob, but even before he arrived. Manasseh and Ephraim proved that a strong Jewish home can raise strong Jewish children anywhere.

That is why Jacob elevated them—making them tribes equal to his own sons.

And that is why this blessing speaks so deeply to us today.

The Diaspora Jew constantly swims against the current—especially at times of year when the street, the culture, and the calendar all pull in the opposite direction. Jewish identity must be chosen, protected, and reaffirmed daily. That takes strength.

The Israeli Jew lives in a tough “neighborhood” and faces physical danger; the Diaspora Jew, often in a more comfortable setting, faces spiritual danger. Both are real. But danger to the soul requires constant resilience.

When Jacob prepared to leave Egypt, he asked that Manasseh and Ephraim carry his coffin along with their uncles. The message was clear: I may be leaving you here—but you are strong enough to carry on. If they could thrive before Jacob arrived, we can thrive after he leaves.

That is why Jews everywhere—Diaspora and Israel alike—still bless their children with these names. Because Ephraim and Manasseh remind us that Jewish strength isn’t only inherited from our surroundings. It’s forged through commitment—and by listening to our Jewish soul’s call to live authentically.

And that blessing still gives us courage—especially when we need it most.

As we carry that message forward, this January we will be kicking off our next I AM YISRAEL CHAI Project: Kosher Awareness Month. Stay tuned next week for more information on how—no matter your kosher background—you can meaningfully upgrade this core practice of Jewish identity in your own life and home.

Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom and Good Shabbos,
Rabbi Yitzi Hein
Chabad of Pittsford

Dear Friends,

What is the model Jew? Is there even such a thing? 

This week’s parsha, Vayigash (“And he confronted.”) which begins at the climax of the Joseph and his brothers' drama gives us some insight into this question:

Judah—who personally guaranteed his father that he would protect Benjamin at all costs—steps forward to confront the ruler of Egypt. He pleads for Benjamin’s release and ultimately offers himself as a slave in Benjamin’s place. Judah does not know that this powerful Egyptian ruler is actually his brother Joseph in disguise. He thinks this is some thug kidnapping his brother on a pretense. Judah is prepared for diplomacy, bargaining, even battle—anything to save a brother.

That moment breaks Joseph.

Seeing Judah’s willingness to take responsibility and his brothers’ loyalty to one another, Joseph can no longer contain himself. He reveals his identity and cries out, “I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?”

The emotional reunion is unforgettable. But Torah commentators explain that Judah’s confrontation does more than reunite a family—it foreshadows an enduring tension in Jewish history. Judah and Joseph represent two different kinds of Jews, two spiritual paths.

As Rabbi Adin Even-Yisrael Steinsaltz explains, Joseph represents perfection—brilliance, righteousness, and success from the start. But perfection can be fragile when it cracks.

Judah represents perseverance. He stumbles in his moral decisions twice, with the sale of Joseph and the episode with Tamar. But he also grows and takes responsibility and keeps moving forward. And Judaism ultimately follows Judah—not because his path is cleaner, but because it is durable.

Jewish life is not about flawless people. It’s about people who keep showing up—for their families, for their values, for one another.

Here is one of my favorite stories of the Rebbe:

In the 1960s, a group of secular college students came to visit the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

They asked thoughtful questions about faith, science, and Judaism. Then one student spoke honestly:

“Rebbe, we’re not religious. We don’t keep Shabbat or kosher. Tell us—are we good Jews?”

The Rebbe answered by telling a story.

Jacob, he said, once had a dream. He saw a ladder stretching from earth to heaven. Angels were going up, and angels were going down. Some were near the top of the ladder; others were at the bottom. Each rung, the Rebbe explained, represents a mitzvah.

“Some people,” the Rebbe said gently, “are born near the top of the ladder—but they may be descending. Others begin at the bottom—but they are climbing, even if only one rung at a time.”

Then the Rebbe looked at the students and asked: “So tell me—who is the better Jew? The one who started high and stepped down? Or the one who started low and is still climbing?”

The Rebbe articulated the lesson of Judah, what matters most is not where you stand—but which direction you are going.

That is what I AM YISRAEL CHAI truly means: I am still here. Still growing. Still choosing a Jewish life of meaning and discovery. Still shining light to my neighbors and community.

Shabbat Shalom/Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Yitzi Hein

 Strugglers of the World — Ignite

On February 9th, 2024, one of the bleakest days of winter, an Israeli man named **Sharon Sharabi came to the Ohel, the resting place of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. He stood there for a long time—about forty minutes—and prayed with such intensity that people nearby couldn’t help but notice.

As he was leaving, a young chassid approached him and said quietly,

“I don’t know what you asked G-d for, but I do know your prayers will be answered within the year.”

Sharon was praying for his brother Eli, who had been taken hostage into Gaza on **October 7th*.

One day short of a year later, Eli Sharabi was released.

For 491 days, Eli endured starvation, terror, and captivity underground. Only after his release did he learn that his wife and two daughters had been murdered. And yet, somehow, he chose life.

“I love life,” Eli has said.

It’s hard to read those words and not stop for a moment.

This week’s Torah portion, Vayeishev, tells a story that feels uncomfortably familiar.

Yosef is betrayed by his brothers, sold, falsely accused, and imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. He is locked away, forgotten, with no clear path forward. And the Torah tells us something simple—but profound:

“G-d was with Yosef”—there, in the prison.

Yosef’s circumstances didn’t improve right away. But he didn’t give up on himself, on others, or on G-d. His body was confined, but his inner life wasn’t. And eventually, that inner strength became the doorway to redemption.

That is why Chanukah speaks so deeply to moments like these.

The Maccabees lived in a time of fear, pressure, and exhaustion. Standing up for Jewish life was dangerous and unpopular. Many people understandably chose to step back.

But the Maccabees didn’t.

And the miracle didn’t come overnight. It came slowly. Through persistence. Through struggle.

The Menorah they fought for had seven lights, lit inside, during the day.

The Chanukah Menorah we light has eight lights, lit outside, after dark, and grows brighter each night.

That’s not incidental. It’s the message.

Struggle doesn’t just restore what was lost.

It can elevate us to places we never could have reached otherwise.

So if you’re struggling right now—quietly or openly—this week’s Torah and Chanukah’s lights are speaking directly to you.

Don’t give up.

Light one more candle.

Say one more prayer.

Do one more good thing.

And remember: Hashem is with you—even here.*

Good Shabbos & Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yitzi & Rishi Hein