www.bocabeachchabad.com | Blogs | Rabbi's Blog

Soul Trek: To See — and Be Seen

Thu, 3 Sep 2026 12:36:00 PM

Dear Friends,

This week, a group from our community embarked on what we called a Soul Trek — a day-long journey to connect more deeply with the Rebbe, and ultimately, with ourselves.

In a sense, the journey began before we even reached our first destination.

Upon arriving at JFK, our group spontaneously broke into song and dance. One participant later reflected on how powerful it felt simply to dance openly and proudly as Jews in a New York airport — particularly at a time when Jewish presence and identity in the city have felt increasingly challenged.

Before we had learned anything, prayed anywhere or visited any sacred space, we had already made a statement: We are here. We are Jewish. And we are proud.

It set the tone for everything that followed.

Our first stop was Soul Words, where we prepared ourselves for the day ahead, before continuing to the Ohel, the Rebbe’s resting place.

At the Ohel there was a stillness and intensity. We each had the opportunity to write a note, pray, reflect and connect. For some there were tears; for others, simply a profound sense of presence.

From there we traveled to 770 and entered the Rebbe’s room — the place where yechidus, private encounters with the Rebbe, took place. Yechidus connotes oneness — a soul connection. Each participant had the opportunity to sit quietly, close their eyes, and spend a few moments in profound reflection and connection.

We then entered the main synagogue at 770 — a dramatic contrast. From the silence of the Rebbe’s room to the pulsating energy of a place alive with Torah, prayer, song and Jewish life; the headquarters from which thousands of emissaries were sent to illuminate the world. It was especially exciting for me to be able to show the men in the group the precise places I stood in 770 for Farbrengens, Tekios (the Shofar blowing) and Hakafos (on Simchas Torah)

Our final stop was the Rebbe’s home, where some were struck by the almost startling simplicity of the home and particularly kitchen. Here was the private home of a leader whose influence reached across the globe, yet there were no trappings of grandeur. Just simplicity, humility and purpose.

The Rebbe described his home as a place of ma’asim tovim — good deeds — and allowed it to be opened to the public so that those who entered would be inspired to add a good deed of their own.

Different participants later spoke about different parts of the day that moved them most. Yet perhaps all of these experiences were expressions of the same journey: a journey inward.

This week’s Torah portion opens: “Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem lifnei Hashem Elokeichem” — “You are all standing today before Hashem your G-d.”

To stand lifnei Hashem — before G-d — is to encounter ourselves without all the layers we accumulate: our titles, insecurities, accomplishments and failures. What remains is the deepest and truest self.

The Torah describes aliyah laregel, the pilgrimage to the Holy Temple, as coming “to see” and “to be seen.” Perhaps being seen by Hashem means learning to see ourselves the way Hashem sees us — not defined by our shortcomings, but by the pure soul within us and by what we are capable of becoming.

That, in many ways, is what the Rebbe did throughout his lifetime — and continues to do. To come to the Rebbe is to see and to be seen. The Rebbe saw beyond what a person thought they were and helped them discover who they could become.

But seeing differently must lead to living differently.

And so everyone on our Soul Trek took upon themselves a practical hachlatah — a positive resolution, one concrete mitzvah or good deed through which to carry the inspiration home.

And then, appropriately, we ended as we had begun: with a dance.

We joined together singing the old Chassidic refrain:

“Tayere brider, mir velen zich veiter zen; az der Eibershter vet geben gezunt un leben, velen mir forn tsum Rebn, mir velen zich veiter zen.”

“Dear brothers, we will see each other again. When G-d grants us health and life, we will travel to the Rebbe, and we will see each other again.”

But this time the dance meant something more.

We had arrived dancing with the pride of Jews unafraid to be seen. We left dancing after having looked more deeply within — having experienced what it means to see, to be seen, and to recognize something greater in ourselves.

And we returned home carrying that encounter with us — not merely as a memory, but as a hachlatah, a good deed, and a commitment to live more fully as the person Hashem sees us to be.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

What Are We Running From?

Thu, 27 Aug 2026 7:22:00 PM

Dear Friends,

There is a curious phrase in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Savo.

“If you will diligently listen to the voice of the Lord your G-d… the Lord your G-d will set you high above all the nations of the earth. And all these blessings will come upon you and reach you” (Deuteronomy 28:1–2).

“Reach you” — v’hisigucha — literally means to catch up with you. It almost sounds as though the blessings are chasing us!

But why would anyone run away from a blessing?

Perhaps because sometimes we don’t recognize the blessing for what it is.

The key may lie in the preceding verse: “G-d will set you high above all the nations.” The blessing begins with elevation — with a Jew recognizing who he is, what he stands for, and the unique mission G-d has entrusted to him. When we embrace that identity, blessings that we may previously have failed to recognize can finally “catch up” with us.

A few verses later, the Torah describes another remarkable blessing: “Your enemies who rise against you will be struck down before you… they will flee before you in seven directions” (28:7).

Notice: the ultimate emphasis is not on the enemy’s destruction, but on his retreat.

There is a victory greater than vanquishing an enemy: possessing such absolute clarity about who you are and what you stand for that the enemy loses his will to fight.

There is a powerful lesson here for Israel today. Our greatest weapon against antisemitism and those who seek Israel’s destruction is moral and spiritual clarity: the Land of Israel is the G-d-given homeland of the Jewish people. We are its custodians. It is not ours to bargain away in the hope of purchasing acceptance or peace. History has repeatedly demonstrated that concessions intended to appease those committed to Israel’s destruction have too often emboldened rather than pacified them.

But such clarity cannot remain theoretical. It must be experienced.

That brings us to another blessing in Ki Savo: “All the peoples of the earth will see that the name of G-d is called upon you, and they will fear you” (28:10).

The Talmud teaches that this refers to tefillin.

In the weeks preceding the Six-Day War, the Rebbe launched his worldwide tefillin campaign, specifically invoking this verse. At a moment of enormous fear, the Rebbe called upon Jewish men to put on tefillin — strengthening not only Israel’s soldiers physically defending the land, but the spiritual identity of Jews everywhere. Accounts from that miraculous war describe the extraordinary fear and retreat of enemy forces in the face of Israeli soldiers.

The Torah’s message remains strikingly contemporary.

When the Jewish people stand tall — proudly, unapologetically and visibly connected to G-d — our enemies retreat, and the blessings that were pursuing us all along can finally catch up.

And perhaps that is especially the message of Elul. Elul is not a month for running away from who we are, but for returning to who we have always been. The King is in the field, close and accessible, inviting us to rediscover our deepest identity and reconnect with the G-dly soul within.

And this week we celebrate Chai Elul, the birthday of both the Baal Shem Tov and the Alter Rebbe — the founders of Chassidism and Chabad Chassidus. Their teachings breathed new life into Jewish consciousness, empowering a Jew not merely to believe in G-d, but to experience the G-dliness within himself and recognize what it truly means to be a Jew.

Perhaps, then, the first blessing of Elul is the clarity to stop running — running from who we are, from what we stand for, and from the responsibility and privilege that come with being G-d’s people.

Because once we stop running from our identity, we may discover that the blessings have been chasing us all along.

Shabbat Shalom and Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Finding Yourself in the Field

Thu, 20 Aug 2026 11:23:00 AM

Dear Friends,

At the beginning of this week, Ahuva and I had the joy of traveling to Utah for the wedding of Noa and Jonah Rose, son of our dear friends Michael and Jill Rose. The wedding took place at La Caille in Sandy, just outside Salt Lake City—a spectacular setting surrounded by mountains, gardens and vineyards.

Standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about Tu B’Av, the 15th of Av, the end of Summer holiday which we had just celebrated. The Talmud describes how, on Tu B’Av, the young women of Jerusalem would go out into the vineyards, where matches were made and Jewish homes were born. How wonderfully appropriate, then, to celebrate a Jewish wedding in a vineyard—a new family taking root in a setting that has symbolized Jewish matchmaking for thousands of years.

But the image of the field and vineyard carries us even further.

We are now in the month of Elul, the month famously described by the Alter Rebbe with the metaphor of “the King in the field.” During the year, approaching a king requires entering the palace, passing through gates and securing permission. In Elul, the King comes out to the field, where everyone can approach Him, and He receives each person graciously and with a smiling countenance.

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Seitzei, begins: “When you go out to war against your enemies.”

Chassidus reads these words not only as describing a physical battlefield, but the battlefield within each of us—the lifelong struggle between our higher aspirations and the forces that pull us elsewhere. The Torah’s words are striking: Ki seitzei—when you go out. Don’t wait for the battle to come to you. Take the initiative. And when you do, the Torah promises, “Hashem your G-d will deliver him into your hand.”

But the deeper surprise comes next: “And you will see among the captives an eishes yefas to’ar—a beautiful woman.”

The Zohar explains that this “beautiful woman” represents the neshamah, the Divine soul. The Ohr HaChaim teaches that the soul remains pristinely innocent and beautiful; it is simply sometimes taken “captive”—buried beneath distractions, habits, ambitions and the noise of everyday life.

That gives the “King in the field” an intensely personal meaning.

Elul isn't only about finding G-d in the field. It is about finding ourselves there.

Somewhere underneath the person we have become through another busy year is the person we really are. The aspirations we postponed. The mitzvah we meant to begin. The relationship we intended to repair. The Jewish voice inside that perhaps became harder to hear.

Elul tells us: go looking for it.

Perhaps that is what made this week’s vineyard wedding especially poignant. A vineyard is a place where something is planted, cultivated and ultimately transformed into something far greater.

Tu B’Av reminds us that we can find another person in the vineyard. Elul reminds us that we can find the King in the field.

And Ki Seitzei reminds us that, sometimes, the most important person waiting to be rediscovered there is ourselves.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Field of Dreams

Fri, 14 Aug 2026 12:21:00 PM

By Divine Providence, as we enter the season of Elul, on Thursday night, Major League Baseball returned to a cornfield in Dyersville, Iowa.

The Philadelphia Phillies and Minnesota Twins played the much-anticipated Field of Dreams Game, beside the site made famous by the iconic Kevin Costner movie. And this isn't merely an exhibition. Both teams are battling for postseason berths, making every game increasingly consequential as the regular season heads toward its home stretch.

There could hardly be a more appropriate image for Elul.

The Alter Rebbe famously describes this month with the metaphor of HaMelech basadeh — “the King is in the field.” Before the king returns to his palace, he comes out to the field, where everyone can approach him. He receives each person graciously and smiles upon them.

And notably, baseball is played on a field.

At this point in the season, teams with postseason aspirations are pulling out all the stops. Every at-bat matters. Every pitch counts. Because you don't qualify for October based on what you plan to do once the postseason begins. You get there because of the work you put in during the regular season.

Elul is our regular-season stretch run.

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are, in a sense, the “postseason” of the Jewish calendar, when the King returns to His palace in all His majesty. But our preparation happens now, while the King is still in the field: another mitzvah, another moment of Torah study, another act of kindness, another honest look at ourselves, another step closer to Hashem.

And then comes baseball's ultimate stage: the World Series.

It's an interesting name. Unlike soccer's World Cup, nations from around the globe aren't competing. Two North American teams play each other — yet we call it the World Series.

Perhaps there is a spiritual truth hidden in the name.

On Rosh Hashanah, the Mishnah teaches that the entire world passes before Hashem in judgment. It really is the World Series. Yet who is standing on the field sounding the shofar and proclaiming Hashem as King of the universe? The Jewish people.

We are the team on the field, but we are playing for something much bigger than ourselves. Our prayers, our mitzvos and our shofar have an impact upon the entire world.

And ultimately, that is our real Field of Dreams.

Our mission is to transform this world itself into Hashem's field — a world permeated with goodness, holiness and awareness of its Creator. Every mitzvah moves us closer to the day when that dream becomes reality: the “field” of Geulah — Redemption.

So as the King comes into the field, it's time to play our hearts out.

May our Elul bring us a winning season, a sweet new year, and ultimately the greatest World Series victory of all — when the Shofar Gadol, the Great Shofar, sounds and ushers in the coming of Moshiach.

Then the entire world will finally become Hashem's Field of Dreams.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Different Paths, One Destination

Thu, 6 Aug 2026 1:56:00 PM

Dear Friends,

Over the past few weeks, I have found myself davening in places I never expected.

During this first year of saying Kaddish—the mourner's prayer—for my father, a"h, I have had to ensure that I have three daily minyanim (prayer quorums) wherever I happen to be. As I have been traveling weekly these past three weeks up north, this has taken me to communities throughout New Jersey, the Catskills and Monsey—and, on several occasions, into Satmar synagogues.

For someone who has spent a lifetime in Chabad, it was a fascinating experience. I am also not exactly anonymous. Between the style of my hat and the "770" embroidered on my tallis (prayer shawl) bag, everyone knew immediately where I came from.

There was a time when that might have made for an uncomfortable encounter. The relationship between Satmar and Chabad was once marked by profound ideological differences that, sadly, sometimes gave rise to painful division.

Yet that wasn't my experience at all.

In every synagogue I entered, I was welcomed with genuine warmth. Without hesitation I was invited to the amud (the prayer lectern) to lead the services, following the practice of giving that privilege to one in the first year of mourning for a parent.

What struck me even more was the davening itself.

It was passionate, powerful and unmistakably vocal. The entire room seemed to pulse with energy. At first, I could barely hear my own voice. Before long, however, I found myself carried by the rhythm, deeply moved by the sincerity and intensity that filled the room.

It reminded me that there are different gateways into deveikus—cleaving to Hashem.

Some souls naturally express that yearning outwardly, through spirited singing, visible emotion and unrestrained fervor. Chabad Chassidus has always sought to ensure that this fire also penetrates inward—that inspiration becomes understanding, emotion becomes internalized, and one's mind, heart and actions become united in the service of Hashem. The Alter Rebbe (founder of Chabad) did not come to replace passion, but to deepen it; not to diminish emotion, but to give it lasting form through hisbonenus (contemplation) and pnimiyus (inner spiritual depth).

Watching their prayers gave me a renewed appreciation for both truths: the beauty of heartfelt passion, and the gift of transforming that passion into an enduring inner relationship with Hashem.

Perhaps that also explains a quiet change that has taken place over the years.

Here at Boca Beach Chabad, we are privileged to welcome a steady stream of Satmar families vacationing from New York who join us for minyan. Around the world—particularly throughout the Far East—many Satmar chassidim rely on Chabad Houses for kosher food, prayer services and a Jewish home away from home. Some have become among the strongest supporters of those Chabad Houses, and today it is no longer unusual to see Satmar chassidim visiting the Ohel—the resting place of the Rebbe—or attending events surrounding the annual Kinus Hashluchim (International Conference of Chabad Emissaries).

This week's Torah portion, Re'eh, contains one of the Torah's most beautiful and challenging aspirations: "U'vo Sidbakun"—"To Him shall you cleave." The Torah is not merely commanding us to believe in G-d or obey Him. It is calling us to cultivate deveikus—a living, intimate bond with Him.

The Jewish people have developed different traditions for expressing that bond. Some emphasize its outward expression; others its inward cultivation. But the destination is the same: to become more deeply attached to the Ribbono Shel Olam—the Master of the Universe.

As I left those synagogues, I found myself grateful—not because our differences had disappeared, but because they no longer felt like barriers. I came away with a deeper appreciation for the sincerity of their avodas Hashem (service of G-d), and with an even greater appreciation for the gift the Alter Rebbe bequeathed to the Jewish people: a path that takes inspiration beyond the moment, drawing it into the very fabric of one's inner life.

Perhaps that is one of the quiet miracles of our generation. We have learned that we can appreciate another Jew's way of serving Hashem without feeling threatened by it. On the contrary, when each of us contributes our unique strengths while remembering that we are one people serving one G-d, we move one step closer to fulfilling the Torah's timeless call:

"U'vo Sidbakun" — "To Him shall you cleave."

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Blessing We Ought Not Take for Granted

Fri, 31 Jul 2026 10:36:00 AM

Dear Friends,

In 2025, researchers published one of the largest analyses ever conducted on gratitude, reviewing dozens of studies across cultures and age groups. Their conclusion was remarkably clear: people who intentionally cultivate gratitude experience greater resilience, better mental health, stronger relationships, and higher overall life satisfaction. Gratitude doesn't merely make us feel better—it fundamentally changes the way we perceive reality.

The Torah would say: We've known that all along.

Long before psychologists began measuring its effects, the Torah prescribed gratitude as an essential spiritual discipline. In Parshas Re'eh, as the Jewish people prepare to enter the Promised Land, the Torah warns that prosperity carries an unexpected danger. Success breeds forgetfulness. Comfort creates the illusion of self-sufficiency: "Kochi v'otzem yadi asah li es hachayil hazeh" ("My strength and the might of my own hand have produced this wealth.")

The antidote is surprisingly simple: Birkas Hamazon (Grace After Meals). "You shall eat, be satisfied, and bless Hashem your G-d for the good land that He has given you." Gratitude is not merely good manners; it is the Torah's safeguard against arrogance and spiritual amnesia. As the Sforno explains, we bless G-d "so that you remember that all these blessings came from Him."

Modern science teaches that gratitude changes the brain. The Torah teaches something even deeper: gratitude protects the soul. As the Rambam (Maimonides) writes, blessings were instituted "to remember the Creator constantly."

Nowhere is this more relevant than in our relationship with the Land of Israel.

In an age when Israel is increasingly vilified in international forums, distorted across social media, and judged by standards applied to no other nation, Jews face a subtle temptation: to become defensive, apologetic, or emotionally detached from the extraordinary gift we have been given.

Remarkably, the Torah anticipated this challenge. The second blessing of Birkas Hamazon, known as Birkas Ha'aretz ("The Blessing for the Land"), was instituted by Yehoshua (Joshua) when the Jewish people first entered Eretz Yisrael. Every day, after every meal, we thank G-d not only for our food, but "al ha'aretz hatovah asher nasan lach" ("for the good land that He has given you").

That daily expression of gratitude shapes the way we see Israel. We do not define our connection to the Land by newspaper headlines or shifting public opinion, but by an eternal covenant. We pray fervently for peace, security, and the safe return of every hostage. We acknowledge the pain and complexity of our moment. Yet none of that diminishes the profound privilege of living in a generation that has witnessed the return of the Jewish people to their ancestral homeland after nearly two thousand years.

Gratitude anchors conviction. It reminds us that blessings are not measured by the absence of challenges, but by the greatness of the gift itself.

This message feels especially timely as we transition from Tishah B'Av (9th of Av), when we mourned the destruction of Jerusalem and the Beis Hamikdash (Holy Temple), to Tu B'Av (15th if Av) which the Mishnah calls one of the happiest days of the Jewish calendar. Judaism never lingers in mourning. From the ashes of destruction, it calls us to rebuild. From heartbreak, it summons hope. From gratitude comes renewal.

Perhaps that is why Birkas Hamazon (Grace after Meals) concludes not only with thanks for the past, but with prayers for the future—for Jerusalem rebuilt, for abundant blessing, and for a redeemed world.

In a cynical age, gratitude is an act of faith. In a hostile world, gratitude for Eretz Yisrael is an act of courage. And in the days between Tishah B'Av and Tu B'Av, (15th of Av)it becomes an act of hope.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Stones Still Speak

Fri, 24 Jul 2026 10:53:00 AM

This week, Jews around the world read Va'eschanan, the Torah portion that contains the Ten Commandments. It is also Shabbos Nachamu—the "Sabbath of Comfort"—named for the opening words of the prophet Isaiah: "Comfort, comfort My people, says your G-d."

Coming just days after Tisha B'Av, the annual day of mourning for the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, the question almost asks itself: What exactly is the comfort?

Perhaps the answer lies in two seemingly unrelated stories that emerged this week.

One made headlines because just last week, archaeologists uncovered monumental stone columns dating back to the First Temple period beneath Jerusalem. Nearly 2,600 years after the destruction, these massive remnants have re-emerged from beneath the earth. They are more than archaeological artifacts. They are testimony. The Temple was not a legend or a metaphor. It stood. Our history is real, our roots run deep, and the Jewish story has outlived every empire that sought to erase it.

The other story was far more unsettling. A growing public debate has emerged over the role some therapists may be playing in encouraging adult children to sever relationships with their parents rather than work toward healing and reconciliation wherever possible. To be sure, every family situation is different, and in cases involving abuse or genuine danger, separation may be both necessary and healthy. But many mental health professionals themselves are expressing concern that our culture has become too quick to discard relationships that, while strained, may still be capable of repair.

At first glance, these stories have nothing in common. Yet this week's Torah portion reveals that they are deeply connected.

The Fifth Commandment instructs us to "Honor your father and your mother." The Talmud tells the remarkable story of the sage Avimi, who fulfilled this commandment with extraordinary devotion. Although he was himself an accomplished Torah scholar, he would personally run to open the door for his elderly father so that he would not have to wait even a moment. On one occasion, his father asked him for a cup of water but fell asleep before Avimi returned. Rather than wake him, Avimi stood patiently beside him, holding the cup until his father awoke. At that very moment, the Talmud says, Avimi was granted an insight that had previously eluded him: he finally understood why the biblical psalm describing the destruction of the Holy Temple begins not as a lament, but as "A Psalm of Asaf." A song.

A song? How can anyone sing about the destruction of the Temple?

An ancient rabbinic teaching answers with a moving parable.

A king built a magnificent wedding canopy for his beloved son. When the son rebelled, the king became furious. Yet instead of striking his son, he tore down the wedding canopy. Watching this unfold, the prince's tutor began to sing. Those around him were astonished. "How can you sing while everything is being destroyed?" The tutor replied, "Because the king poured out his anger on the canopy instead of his son."

That, explain the Sages, is the meaning of the destruction of the Temple. G-d destroyed His House, but He spared His children. The very destruction of the Temple testified that the covenant between Father and child remained unbroken. Only someone who had developed such profound sensitivity to honoring a parent could fully appreciate this truth. Avimi understood that authentic love is not measured by the absence of discipline. Sometimes love demands painful consequences. But genuine love never abandons the relationship itself. Perhaps that is the message our generation most needs to hear.

We live in a culture that increasingly views relationships through the lens of personal fulfillment. If a relationship becomes painful, difficult, or disappointing, the instinct is often to walk away. Judaism offers a different perspective. While it fully recognizes that some situations require distance for the sake of safety and wellbeing, it also teaches that relationships—especially between parents and children—are sacred covenants, not disposable contracts. They deserve patience, gratitude, humility, and every sincere effort toward healing.

Which brings us back to Shabbos Nachamu. The comfort offered by the prophet Isaiah is not that the destruction never happened. It did. Nor is the comfort that everything will somehow work out in the end. The comfort is far deeper. Before speaking about redemption, Isaiah reminds us of something even more fundamental: "Comfort, comfort My people."

Notice what G-d does not say. He does not say, "Comfort those who once were My people." He says, "My people." The Temple may have been destroyed, but the relationship endured. The House fell, but the family remained.

In fact, the Sages teach that this was the very meaning of the destruction itself. By "pouring out His wrath upon the wood and the stones rather than upon His children," G-d revealed that His covenant with the Jewish people could never be broken.

Suddenly, those newly discovered First Temple stones take on an entirely new significance. They are not simply remnants of an ancient building. They are silent witnesses to an eternal relationship. Empires have risen and fallen. Nations have disappeared. The Temple itself was reduced to rubble. Yet the covenant survived.

Perhaps that is why these stones are emerging from beneath Jerusalem during the very week we read Isaiah's words of comfort. After lying hidden for centuries, they seem to whisper the same message as the prophet himself: The Temple may have fallen. The covenant never did. And there can be no greater comfort than that.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Last Chapter

Fri, 17 Jul 2026 11:10:00 AM

If there is one thing our generation has become expert at, it is preserving pain.

Every tragedy is archived. Every trauma is documented. Social media ensures that painful moments never really disappear; they are replayed, reposted, and relieved. Therapists rightly encourage us not to suppress our wounds, but sometimes our culture goes a step further—we begin to define ourselves by them. Our suffering becomes part of our identity.

The Jewish people know suffering better than perhaps any nation on earth. And yet Judaism has always insisted on something extraordinary.

This Wednesday night we will read Megillas Eichah, (the scroll of Lamentations) Jeremiah's heartbreaking lament over the destruction of Jerusalem. Curiously, unlike Megillas Esther, read on Purim, Eichah is generally not read from a handwritten parchment scroll. Instead, it is read from an ordinary printed book.

Why?

The great halachic authority Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe, (1530- 1612) the Levush, offers a remarkable explanation. Writing Eichah on parchment would give it an air of permanence. It would suggest that exile is our permanent condition. We deliberately refrain from doing so because we live with the certainty that Tishah B'Av will one day be transformed into a festival of joy. We refuse to give our national tragedy the permanence of parchment.

That perspective has never felt more relevant.

Since October 7, the Jewish world has endured one of the darkest chapters in modern Jewish history. The massacre, the hostages still languishing in captivity, the war, the surge of antisemitism across university campuses and city streets, and the painful isolation felt by so many supporters of Israel have left wounds that will remain with us forever.

These events deserve to be remembered. They must never be forgotten.

But they must never become the final definition of who we are.

Significantly, the Torah often expresses remembrance in the future tense—"yizkor." Jewish memory is never merely retrospective. We do not simply look backward with nostalgia or grief. We remember the past as part of a story that is still unfolding, one whose ultimate destination is redemption. Memory is not an anchor keeping us trapped in yesterday; it is a compass pointing us toward tomorrow. Every act of remembrance is, in essence, an affirmation that the final chapter has not yet been written.

That is why we do not write Eichah on parchment.

We mourn honestly, but we refuse to canonize despair. We grieve deeply, but we refuse to believe that exile is the last chapter. We carry our pain without allowing it to become our identity.

This is also the profound message of Shabbos Chazon. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev (1740- 1809) famously taught that on this Shabbos every Jew is shown a vision—a chazon—of the Third Beis Hamikdash. Before we enter the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, Hashem grants us a glimpse of how the story ends. Before we read Eichah, He shows us the future. Before we descend into mourning, He reminds us that redemption is already on the horizon.

Hamas intended October 7 to become the defining image of Jewish vulnerability. Judaism refuses to grant them that victory. We will remember October 7 forever—but never as the final chapter. It will become another chapter in the long story of Jewish resilience, faith and redemption.

We remember every victim. We pray every day for every hostage. We stand shoulder to shoulder with our brothers and sisters in Israel.

But we do not write Eichah on parchment.

Because the Jewish story has never ended with destruction.

It ends with redemption.

Shabbos Chazon reminds us that before we can see redemption with our eyes, we must first learn to see it with our vision.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Rebuilding the Temple, One Shirt at a Time

Thu, 2 Jul 2026 8:46:00 AM

Among the many legal obligations outlined in a ketubah (marriage contract) is one line that has always struck me as remarkably personal. A husband commits to providing for his wife with the very clothes on his back if necessary. Hidden within a legal document is a profoundly romantic promise: Your well-being comes before my own comfort.

This week, a video circulating from Israel captured that very spirit—but with an unexpected twist.

A young Chabadnik approached an Israeli man to help him put on tefillin. The only problem was that the man was shirtless. Without hesitation, the Chabadnik removed his own shirt and handed it to him so he could fulfill the mitzvah with dignity.

It's one thing to give the shirt off your back for your spouse. But would you do it for a fellow Jew you've never met?

That simple act may have been worth more than a thousand speeches about Jewish unity.

We have just entered the Three Weeks, the period during which we mourn the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. Our Sages teach that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinas chinam—baseless hatred. The obvious antidote is not merely the absence of hatred, but the presence of Ahavas Yisrael - love for a fellow Jew so genuine that another Jew's spiritual opportunity becomes more important than your own comfort.

This week's Parshah, Pinchas, reminds us that every Jew is responsible for the spiritual welfare of another. Pinchas did not stand by as an observer. He acted because he understood that the destiny of the Jewish people is shared. While his actions were unique and cannot be imitated, the underlying lesson certainly can: don't remain indifferent when another Jew's relationship with Judaism hangs in the balance.

Most of us won't be asked to save the Jewish people with an act of heroism. But we may be asked to remove a jacket, offer a ride to synagogue, invite someone for Shabbos, help another person put on tefillin, or simply make someone feel that they belong.

The Beis Hamikdash was lost because Jews became disconnected from one another. It will be rebuilt through countless moments of selfless connection.

This Independence Day, as America marks 250 years, we celebrate a nation whose earliest settlers and founders looked to the Hebrew Bible for inspiration. They admired a society built not merely on freedom, but on covenant—on the belief that liberty endures only when people accept responsibility for one another. That vision remains as relevant today as ever. The road from sinas chinam - baseless hatred - to redemption begins not with grand declarations, but with simple acts of selfless kindness.

Sometimes, it begins with giving someone the shirt off your back.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom and Happy Independence Day,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Watch the Video Here

A Man for All Seasons

Thu, 25 Jun 2026 1:06:00 PM

There are people who are products of their times. Then there are people who transcend time.

This Shabbos is “Yud-Beis Tammuz” (12 Tammuz) the anniversary of the liberation of the Frierdiker (Previous) Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, in 1927 who was imprisoned and sentenced to death in Communist Russia and set free on the twelfth of Tammuz. We celebrate a leader who carried the same unwavering Torah through some of the most dramatically different chapters of modern Jewish history.

One of the unique aspects of the esrog that we bless as one of the four kinds of Sukkos, is that it remains on the tree throughout every season. It endures the scorching heat of summer, the rains of autumn, the cold of winter and the winds of spring, emerging whole and beautiful. It can be said that the Frierdiker Rebbe was the human embodiment of an esrog. The seasons around him changed dramatically. He never did.

His first season was Communist Russia, where Judaism itself had been declared an enemy of the state. Teaching Torah, operating a cheder, arranging a bris or maintaining a mikvah could mean imprisonment or death. The enemy was obvious. Yet the Frierdiker Rebbe built an underground network of rabbis, teachers and activists who refused to surrender. His arrest and miraculous liberation on Yud-Beis Tammuz became far more than a personal victory—it was a declaration that no regime could extinguish the Jewish soul.

Then came Riga. Here there were no prison cells or secret police. Instead, he encountered a Westernized Jewish community blessed with freedom but increasingly detached from tradition. The challenge was no longer preserving Judaism under persecution; it was awakening Jews who no longer felt they needed it. From Latvia, the Frierdiker Rebbe transformed Chabad from a movement struggling to survive into one reaching outward. He expanded the publication of Chassidus, established schools, strengthened communities and reignited Jewish pride in an environment where assimilation, rather than oppression, posed the greatest threat.

From Riga he relocated to Warsaw. Poland was overflowing with Torah scholarship and vibrant religious life, yet Chabad represented only a small stream within a vast religious landscape. Here the challenge was neither persecution nor apathy, but building bridges. Through scholarship, humility and genuine love for every Jew, the Frierdiker Rebbe expanded the Chabad yeshivah network and inspired thousands, earning respect far beyond his own Chassidic circle. He demonstrated that one can stand uncompromisingly for truth while embracing every fellow Jew with warmth and dignity.

All the while he relentlessly continued to rally Jewish organizations and government institutions to help support the Jews of Russia, whose suffering and persecution could only be conveyed by someone who had personally endured it. It was hard for anyone who hadn’t, to really fathom and process what was going on behind the Iron Curtain.

Finally came America. Through a series of miraculous events and a dramatic rescue effort in the winter of 1940 that involved government officials at the highest levels of US and European Governments, the Rebbe arrived on these shores. He mobilized Jewish leadership and government officials to engage more actively in rescuing Jews from Europe. Here too, American Jews didn’t fully fathom what was unfolding in Europe.

Ironically, the freedoms of America proved to be yet another battlefield. Here there was unprecedented freedom, but many believed that authentic Torah life simply could not flourish in the modern world. Upon arriving on American shores, the Frierdiker Rebbe famously declared, "America is no different." Torah would not bend to fit America; America could be elevated by Torah. The remarkable renaissance of Jewish education, outreach and Chabad institutions throughout the world began with that conviction.

This week's double Parshah, Chukas-Balak, captures the secret of his greatness. Chukas introduces the chok—a Divine truth whose validity does not depend on changing human fashions or philosophies. Balak reminds us that while the world may try to intimidate, redefine or curse the Jewish people, our identity is determined neither by our enemies nor by the spirit of the age. We are shaped by Hashem's eternal Torah.

Every generation experiences different seasons. Today we face rising antisemitism, unprecedented technological change, growing assimilation and painful divisions within our own people. The particulars have changed, but the leadership we need has not. Like the Frierdiker Rebbe, we must possess the courage to confront hostility, the vision to inspire the indifferent, the love to unite a diverse Jewish people and the faith to remain steadfast in an ever-changing world.

If there is one book every Jew should read this summer, I would recommend Undaunted: How the Sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn Saved Russian Jewry, Reimagined American Judaism, and Ignited a Global Jewish Renaissance by David Eliezri. It is far more than a biography. It is impossible to truly understand the story of modern American Jewry—the remarkable revival of Torah after the Holocaust, the flourishing of Jewish education, and the global impact of Chabad—without understanding the life of the Frierdiker Rebbe. His journey is the bridge between the shattered world of pre-war European Jewry and the vibrant Jewish renaissance we are privileged to witness today.

The seasons changed. The countries changed. The challenges changed. But because one man refused to change his commitment to Torah and to the Jewish people, he changed the course of Jewish history.

Good Yom Tov and Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Purveyors of Hope

Wed, 17 Jun 2026 3:04:00 PM

In honor of Gimmel Tammuz- The Rebbe’s 32nd Yartzeit

Dear Friends,

A friend involved in developing a program to combat antisemitism recently shared a fascinating exchange with a potential donor. After hearing the vision and strategy, the donor paused and asked:

“Can you sell hope?”

At first glance, it sounds like a cynical question. But perhaps it is actually the defining question of our time.

Because hope today has become a rare commodity.

We live in an age saturated with anxiety. The headlines are relentless. Israel is once again being pressured into concessions and withdrawals while the world conveniently ignores the forces sworn to its destruction. Iran signs agreements while openly threatening annihilation. Jewish students walk onto college campuses wondering whether they will be harassed for simply existing.

This week, a woman came to speak with me in tears about her college-aged son who is considering “converting out” of Judaism simply to avoid antisemitism.

Think about that.

A Jewish child in America wondering whether it is safer not to be Jewish.

And yet, perhaps this is precisely why “selling hope” may be one of the most important businesses in the world.

That, in many ways, was the Rebbe’s business.

Gimmel Tammuz is not merely a Yahrtzeit - date marking the passing of the Rebbe - it is a reminder of the astonishing power of one person to inject hope into an exhausted world.

The Rebbe inherited a post-Holocaust Jewish people shattered by trauma and threatened by unprecedented assimilation. Most experts and sociologists predicted Jewish decline in America. Judaism, they argued, could not survive the freedoms and distractions of the modern world.

But the Previous Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, declared defiantly: “America is not different.” Torah could flourish here no less than in Europe.

And the Rebbe took that hope and transformed it into a movement.

He looked at Jews who had little background, little observance, and sometimes little interest, and saw infinite potential. He sent Shluchim/emissaries across the globe not merely to teach Judaism, but to restore dignity, purpose, joy and confidence to the Jewish soul.

The Rebbe also refused to give up on humanity itself.

As America approaches its 250th anniversary, perhaps the greatest hope for this country lies not in technological progress or political victories, but in rediscovering the moral foundations upon which it was built: that human beings are created by a Creator and endowed with inherent dignity because they carry the Divine image.

I recently watched a law enforcement official being interviewed about the phenomenon of “teenage takeovers” erupting in cities across the country. He blamed social media.

But social media is not the root cause. It merely accelerates imitation.

The deeper problem is the spiritual vacuum created when society removes G-d from the public conversation. The Rebbe repeatedly warned that when children are taught they are cosmic accidents, biological beings rather than sacred beings, the inevitable result is a collapse of boundaries, dignity, and self-worth.

Without G-d, morality becomes negotiable. Without a soul, identity becomes fragile. Without purpose, chaos rushes in to fill the void.

This idea is deeply connected to this week’s Parsha, Korach. Korach did not deny holiness. On the contrary, his rallying cry was: “Ki kol ha’eidah kulam kedoshim” — the entire congregation is holy.

But therein lay the danger.

Korach believed that if everyone is holy, then no one should lead, no one should rise higher, and no one should carry unique responsibility. In the name of equality, he undermined the very concept of visionary leadership.

Yet Judaism teaches the opposite. Precisely because every Jew is holy, because every human life is sacred, leadership matters even more. True leaders do not diminish the people; they reveal the greatness within the people. Moshe did not stand above the nation — he stood for the nation.

That was the Rebbe’s model of leadership. The Rebbe saw holiness in every Jew, and greatness in every human being and understood that people need leaders who can awaken hope when others surrender to fear, who can see possibility when others see decline, and who can remind a confused generation of its Divine mission.

In moments when the Jewish people feel exhausted, isolated, or overwhelmed, the Rebbe reminds us to refuse to surrender to despair. He reminds us that G-d believes in us even when stopped we stop believing in ourselves.

He taught us all to be purveyors of hope. In the long arch of history, we are no strangers to struggles and setbacks. But no setback can prevent the needle of redemption from moving forward on Mitzvah at a time.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

From Grasshoppers to Giants

Wed, 10 Jun 2026 4:23:00 PM

One of the most fascinating explanations offered by the Rambam for the forty-year journey through the desert appears in the Moreh Nevuchim (The Guide for the Perplexed). The generation that left Egypt, he explains, could not immediately enter and conquer the Land of Israel because they still carried the psychological imprint of slavery. They had lived for centuries under oppression, dependency, and fear. Freedom had been granted to them physically, but internally they still thought like slaves.

The desert years were therefore not a punishment alone. They were a process of transformation.

A new generation had to emerge — one born in freedom, raised under the Clouds of Glory, nourished by manna from heaven, and educated with a mindset of destiny rather than survival. Only such a generation could cross the Jordan and possess the land with confidence and courage.

This idea speaks powerfully to our own moment in Jewish history.

For decades, much of Israel’s public diplomacy has been trapped in a defensive posture — apologizing for our presence in our own homeland, endlessly responding to accusations, and often repeating narratives that were never ours to begin with. We became so accustomed to the false “Palestinian narrative” that at times we ourselves helped perpetuate it, speaking about Judea and Samaria as though our claim there were somehow secondary or negotiable.

But something is changing.

A new generation of Israeli leadership is emerging — leaders who are no longer speaking the language of exile, hesitation, or apology. Recently, Samaria Regional Council head Yossi Dagan met with members of Congress in Washington, openly and unapologetically asserting the Jewish people’s obligation to ensure the security of citizens and the historic and Biblical right to the entirety of the Land of Israel, including Judea and Samaria. There is something refreshingly historic about Jews speaking with the confidence of ownership rather than the anxiety of permission.

Samaria Regional Council head Yossi Dagan with U.S. Congressman Marlin Stutzman (R-In)

And predictably, the backlash follows.

Case in point: this week, reports emerged that countries such as France were moving to ban Israeli Finance Minister Betzalel Smotrich from entering the country. The old world order is deeply uncomfortable with Jews who refuse to speak like guests in their own land.

Perhaps this too is part of the lesson of the spies.

The spies said about the inhabitants of the Land: “We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we were in their eyes.”

The Kotzker Rebbe famously noted that once the Jews saw themselves as grasshoppers, that perception itself shaped how others saw them. When we view ourselves as weak, apologetic, uncertain, and dependent on the approval of the nations, we invite the world to see us that way as well.

But when Jews stand with confidence, clarity, and conviction in the justice of our cause to be able to live in peace and security, and the eternity of our connection to the land, the perception changes.

The generation that entered Israel under Yehoshua did not think like slaves escaping Egypt. They thought like a people returning home. Redemption required not only leaving Egypt geographically, but leaving Egypt psychologically.

So too today.

The effort to preserve and strengthen the Jewish presence in the Land of Israel demands more than military strength or political strategy. It requires a redemptive mindset — the courage to stop seeing ourselves through the fearful eyes of exile and to begin seeing ourselves through the eyes of Torah, history, and destiny.

It may take the world some getting used to. But eventually, truth has a way of catching on.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

How Loud Is Your Trumpet?

Thu, 4 Jun 2026 1:08:00 PM

Dear Friends,

This week’s Parsha introduces the mitzvah of the Shtei Chatzotzros — the two silver trumpets that Moshe was commanded to fashion for the Jewish people.

One trumpet was used to gather the nation. The other to signal movement, mission, and journey.

The Torah uses two fascinating terms in describing the Jewish people throughout the wilderness years: Machaneh and Eidah.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, as quoted by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, explained that these are not merely poetic synonyms. They describe two distinct dimensions of Jewish identity.

A Machaneh — a camp — comes into being because of what happens from the outside. A people under threat naturally circles the wagons, defends itself, and ensures its survival. A camp is forged by external pressures, enemies, and danger.

An Eidah — a congregation — is something entirely different. It is formed not by outside threats, but by an inner mission and vision. The word Eidah comes from the word eid — witness. An Eidah is a people united around a calling, a purpose, a testimony. The Jewish people are not merely meant to survive history, but to illuminate it. We are summoned not only to self-preservation, but to spiritual purpose as ambassadors of Hashem in the world.

Today, with antisemitism surging globally and Israel under relentless scrutiny and attack, the Jewish world has become exceptionally strong as a Machaneh. Jews across the spectrum are rallying together. Communities are organizing security. Israel is defending its citizens with remarkable courage and sacrifice. The instinct of the Machaneh is alive and well.

But how are we faring as an Eidah?

Are we articulating clearly enough — to ourselves and to the world — why this land matters to us? Are we speaking only the language of geopolitics, or also the language of Torah? Are we explaining that our connection to Eretz Yisrael is not merely historical or political, but covenantal and Divine?

And are we unapologetic about another fundamental Torah principle: that the preservation of Jewish life overrides every political calculation? The Torah’s mandate to protect life is not an ideological preference. It is a sacred obligation.

The two trumpets remind us that both dimensions are necessary.

A nation that is only an Eidah without becoming a Machaneh will not survive. But a nation that is only a Machaneh without remembering its mission as an Eidah risks surviving without purpose.

The Jewish people were never meant merely to endure. We were meant to testify.

The question is not only whether we are sounding the trumpet of defense.

The deeper question is: how loud is the trumpet of our mission?

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Living Life to the Max !

Fri, 29 May 2026 7:49:00 AM

One of the biggest revolutions quietly transforming the modern world is not a new product, but a new obsession: efficiency.

Today, AI systems can analyze millions of data points in seconds, eliminating wasted time, streamlining workflows, and maximizing productivity. In the global shipping industry, artificial intelligence is now used to determine precisely how cargo containers should be loaded onto ships — maximizing space, reducing fuel consumption, minimizing delays, and saving billions of dollars annually. A few inches of unused cargo space multiplied across thousands of ships becomes an enormous loss. The modern world has discovered the power of maximizing capacity.

Surprisingly, this week’s Parsha already taught that lesson over three thousand years ago.

Parshas Naso describes the wagons donated by the tribal leaders for transporting the Mishkan through the desert. The Torah carefully details how the wagons were allocated: two wagons were assigned to the family of Gershon and four to the family of Merari.

Why does the Torah devote so much attention to ancient transportation logistics? Because the Mishkan was not merely being transported. A philosophy of life was being transported.

The family of Merari carried the heaviest beams, pillars, and sockets of the Mishkan. They therefore required greater carrying capacity. Every wagon, every inch of space, every available resource was utilized with precision and purpose in the service of holiness.

Nothing wasted.
Nothing idle.
Nothing underutilized.

The Rebbe derives from this a powerful lesson for life.

If the Torah insists on maximizing the carrying capacity of wagons transporting wood and beams, how much more so must a human being maximize the gifts, abilities, opportunities, and time granted to them by Hashem.

No talent was given accidentally.
No strength was given pointlessly.
No moment was created without meaning.

The Rebbe explains that every person has “unused capacity” within them — abilities they have not yet fully developed, goodness they have not yet fully shared, Torah they have not yet fully learned, kindness they have not yet fully expressed.

A person may already dedicate time to Torah, but perhaps there is room for another few minutes. One may already help others, but perhaps there is another person waiting for encouragement. One may already live Jewishly, but perhaps there is another mitzvah that can be upgraded with more beauty, consistency, or passion.

The Torah’s vision of efficiency is not about becoming robotic or mechanically productive.
It is about recognizing that life itself is sacred cargo.

Every faculty we possess is part of a Divine mission. If Hashem gave us broader shoulders, deeper wisdom, greater influence, financial resources, creativity, or leadership ability, then those capacities are not random blessings — they are indicators of responsibility.

The Mishkan traveled through the desert on carefully loaded wagons.

Our personal Mishkan travels through life on the wagons of our time, energy, and potential.

And perhaps the message of Parshas Naso is this:
Don’t leave holy capacity unused.

Not in your schedule.
Not in your talents.
Not in your generosity.
Not in your soul.

Because when every part of life is utilized with intention and purpose, life itself becomes infinitely more efficient — not merely in the modern sense of saving time or maximizing output, but in the deepest spiritual sense: nothing is wasted. Every talent serves a mission. Every resource carries meaning. Every moment moves us closer to revealing the Divine presence within the world itself.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Ultimate Identifiable Flying Object

Wed, 20 May 2026 8:09:00 PM

Dear Friends,

In 1984, when I was a 16-year-old student in Melbourne, Australia, our Yeshivah participated in the annual Lag B’Omer parade. It was shortly after the blockbuster movie E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial had captured the world’s imagination. (The movie had come out just two years earlier, in 1982, and everyone was still talking about it.)

Each group of students prepared themed floats for the parade. One group built tanks. Another worked on giant mitzvah displays. My assignment? Helping create an E.T. figure.

But in true Yeshivah fashion, we gave it a Jewish twist.

Instead of “Extra-Terrestrial,” our E.T. stood for:

“The Eternal Torah.”

At the time, it was just a clever play on words.

But looking back, I realize it captured something profoundly Jewish.

The world has always been fascinated by the mysterious, the unidentified, the unknowable — by what may exist somewhere beyond us. Humanity gazes upward in wonder, searching the skies for meaning.

And lately, with renewed headlines about UFOs, government disclosures, mysterious aerial phenomena, and speculation about extraterrestrial intelligence, that fascination has only intensified.

Are we alone?
Is there life beyond Earth?
Is someone trying to contact us?

Interestingly, Torah does not dismiss the possibility of other forms of life somewhere within G-d’s vast universe. The Creator who fashioned billions of galaxies is certainly not limited by our imagination.

But Judaism makes a critical distinction.

The unique gift of moral freedom — the ability to choose between good and evil, to shape oneself and transform the world through those choices — was entrusted to humanity.

And that is precisely the message of Sinai.

If people are searching for the ultimate “UFO,” then the Giving of the Torah was actually the ultimate IFO — the ultimate Identifiable Flying Object.

Not unidentified. Identified.

The Midrash describes how multitudes of angels descended upon Mount Sinai. Heaven itself came down to earth. The mountain trembled, the heavens opened, and an entire nation witnessed Divine revelation together.

But here is the truly revolutionary part of the story.

Most spiritual systems seek escape from the physical world. The goal is often to transcend earth and ascend heavenward.

Sinai reversed the direction.

The novelty of Matan Torah was not that human beings could climb to heaven.

It was that Heaven came down to earth.

Judaism introduced a radically different vision: that the deepest truth is not hidden in distant galaxies, but revealed through eternal Divine wisdom brought into ordinary human life.

The purpose of Torah is not to detach from the world, but to sanctify the world — to bring holiness into business ethics, family relationships, meals, conversations, kindness, community, and daily existence.

Not mystery for mystery’s sake.

But eternity with purpose.

That is why the Torah we received at Sinai is called eternal.

Not because it remains in heaven.

But because it transforms life on earth.

And that is why the most important response to Shavuos is not merely inspiration.

It is action.

A little more Torah study.
A little more kindness.
A little more holiness brought into everyday life.

In that spirit, we are excited to make Torah learning even more accessible in our community.

Beginning Thursday, May 28, we will launch a new weekly Lunch & Learn Torah class at Avi’s Grill at 12:30 PM — an opportunity to pause in the middle of the workday and reconnect to something higher.

And on June 9, we are launching a fascinating new Jewish Learning Institute course in honor of America’s 250th anniversary:

Sinai and Civics: The Jewish Ethics that Shaped America’s Founding.

At a time when society is searching the skies for meaning, perhaps Shavuos reminds us where the deepest answers are truly found:

Not in distant galaxies.

But in bringing Heaven down to Earth — one mitzvah, one act of goodness, and one moment of UFOs may come and go. Fascinations rise and fade. Headlines capture attention and then disappear into history.

But the great IFO of Sinai — the eternal and identifiable revelation of G-d at Mount Sinai — continues to illuminate and guide Jewish life thousands of years later.

May we merit to receive the Torah joyfully and inwardly, and may the eternity of Torah continue to illuminate our lives, our homes, and our world for generations to come.

Good Yom Tov and Good Shabbos.

Rabbi Ruvi New