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Shabbos 250, Flags of Faith and the Quiet Revolution of Influence

Thu, 14 May 2026 12:20:00 PM

Dear Friends,

Last week, I wrote about the extraordinary moment of a sitting American president publicly calling upon Americans to recognize and observe Shabbos in honor of America’s 250th year, in what has come to be known as “Shabbos 250.” Whatever one’s politics, it is a remarkable cultural milestone: the values of Shabbos — rest, faith, family, dignity and transcendence — entering the national conversation in a way previous generations of Jews could scarcely imagine. I encourage you to commemorate this milestone event by inviting guests to your home for a Shabbos meal this Shabbos.

The timing is particularly prescient as this Shabbos is the 4oth anniversary of the Rebbe declaring this Shabbos - the Shabbos before the holiday Shavuos as “Shabbos Achdus” - the Shabbos of Unity, urging people to come together this Shabbos in a spirit of joy and unity.

This week’s Parsha, Bamidbar, deepens that idea in a powerful way.

The Torah describes how the Jewish people camped in the desert, each tribe beneath its own flag, surrounding the Mishkan (Tabernacle) at the center. The Kli Yakar explains that these flags were not merely organizational. They were spiritual. Because the Shechinah (Divine Presence) rested in the center of the camp, and the people oriented themselves around that center, the nations of the world would look upon them with awe. Not fear born of military might, but reverence born of clarity, purpose and holiness.

He writes that when a people live with G-d at the center, “all eyes turn toward Him.” The flag itself becomes a symbol of victory — not victory through the sword, but through the Name of Hashem. “For they did not inherit the land through their swords, but through the Name of Hashem.” The Kli Yakar then adds a striking image from the Gemara: in the future, the righteous will form a circle around the Divine Presence, with Hashem at the center, and every soul facing toward Him together. That vision, he says, already begins in this world whenever people orient their lives around something higher than themselves.

This week, I saw two messages that felt like living examples of that idea.

The first was a follow-up note to Ahuva from Rosemary, her childhood neighbor in Albuquerque, New Mexico — the same woman I mentioned in last week’s article. More than forty years after living next door to a Chassidic family, she wrote the following:

“My thoughts on the Drizin (Ahuva’s maiden name) family. Then and Now.

I’m 57 now and I think this may have taken place when I was about 13.

You came to mind around a conversation I was having with my darling mother about our thoughts about what happens to our soul or consciousness after we die. We were reflecting on the fact that our beliefs have now grown out of our lived experiences, rather than doctrine or dogma. ……..

My mother was postulating that (after death) we have a time of realizing our impact on others - good and bad. Essentially, we come to know how we have affected the lives around us after the veil of our inherent denial is lifted. I was thinking about how others’ beliefs have influenced my own - consciously and unconsciously.

You came into the discussion because I vaguely remembered a poster you had on your bedroom wall. I don’t remember the wording, but I think it was ‘something NOW.’ My memory is foggy on it, but I recall you talking about something like a joyful Mass Ascension - a collective rapture.

When we knew each other, we were both children, so close in age, you and I had a more peer-to-peer relationship than I had with your siblings. You have always held a place in my heart and my memory as one of my great Teachers. You taught me about the joyful embrace of religion. You didn’t seem burdened by doctrine — on the contrary, you were joyful, secure and certain. It seemed that you felt ‘lucky,’ but that’s probably the wrong term, it’s more ‘blessed.’ My own experience with religious practice was beleaguered and I recall more ‘have to’ than ‘get to’ when it came to attending church.

In my life, my interactions with your family remain the only time I’ve been close with a Hasidic family (or friends). As I told you on the phone, I feel like I’ve been ‘Jewish adjacent’ in my life, with many Jewish friends, family, my first boyfriend and many Israeli friends. You and your parents had a great deal of patience with me as I was learning how your household operated. Starting with the mezuzah, entering your home was full of unique mysteries and practices that threaded through what was a very loving and welcoming household.

There was a profound sense of mutual respect for our differences - not ‘right’ and ‘wrong. There were many teaching moments which were genuinely gentle. So many things were outside my experience.

I remember your kitchen with separate cutting boards for the meat and dairy. Your house had the best milk I had ever tasted. I always wanted to drink more than I took because I knew your father had gone to great lengths to bring it home, including watching the cows being milked!

It taught me a lot about what I take for granted.

In your household, gender roles were different from those in mine, but wonderfully supportive of my adolescent self. I liked that there were rules that avoided incidental contact between me and your father - certainly no handshakes or hugs. It was unusual for me to see such strongly differentiated gender roles, but they provided an example of empowerment, it was a new way of envisioning equality. There was a place for everyone - all of equal value.

You all taught me about the Sabbath and the rules regarding ‘carrying.’ A knock on the door at our house meant you needed a little assistance with light switches or stove burners at your house. I felt lucky that I could provide a service that helped your family specifically because I wasn’t Jewish. It’s what I now recognize as a lesson in interdependence.

I recall your family eating outside in the driveway in the sukkah.

I even attended Mellie’s bris in your backyard.

Now, as an adult, I think we all live lives that many other people would see as ‘extreme’ because we all are, in fact, different from each other. When we’re not obsessing on the differences, we can be enriched by our diversity - essentially, live and let live. But my time as your neighbor has always remained special in my heart, a true gift, a time of openness and curiosity.

Please thank your parents and siblings for their great kindness and teaching love by example. I have spent my life holding you with love in my heart and I’m so grateful to have been called to contact you and share my memories.”

Rosemary.

Extraordinary.

A child grows up next door to a religious Jewish family in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and forty years later she still carries the feeling of a home centered around holiness. Not because someone preached to her. But because she encountered a living flag.

The second message arrived unexpectedly from Rabbi Laibl Wolf in Melbourne. He sent me a photograph of a sign displaying the Seven Noachide Laws that had once hung in my father’s office.

I had forgotten all about it.

But my father clearly understood something profound: the workplace itself can become a Mishkan (Sanctuary). Business is not merely a place to earn a living. It is an opportunity to elevate the moral consciousness of the world.

That sign hanging in his office was, in its own way, a flag.

A quiet declaration that civilization stands upon moral foundations. That humanity flourishes when anchored in Divine values. That every human being is entrusted with a sacred code of dignity, justice and responsibility.

And perhaps that is the deeper meaning of the flags in Bamidbar.

Every Jew carries a flag of some kind.

Not merely what we say — but what we center our lives around.

And when Hashem stands at the center of a home, a family, a business or a community, people notice. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes forty years later.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

A President’s Call, A Neighbor’s Call, and Your Calling

Fri, 8 May 2026 9:07:00 AM

This week, something remarkable happened.

For what appears to be the first time in American history, the President of the United States issued a public proclamation calling upon Americans to recognize and observe Shabbos.

Whatever one’s politics may be, that moment is profoundly significant. The head of the most powerful nation on earth publicly acknowledging the value of Shabbos is not something previous generations of Jews could have imagined. For centuries, Jews sacrificed livelihoods, opportunities, and comfort in order to keep Shabbos. In many places, governments outlawed it, mocked it, or pressured Jews to abandon it. And now, in a stunning turn of history, the president of the United States speaks publicly about the importance of a day devoted to rest, faith, family, and spiritual reflection.

It is especially striking because this week’s Parsha, Behar-Bechukosai, places Shabbos at the very center of Jewish life.

Parshas Behar begins with the mitzvah of Shemittah — the land itself observing a Shabbos every seventh year: “V’shavsah ha’aretz Shabbos LaHashem.” Not only people rest. Even the earth rests. The Torah introduces the idea that productivity is not the highest value in life. There is something higher than constant output: the recognition that the world belongs to G-d.

Shabbos declares that human beings are more than workers, consumers, or producers. We are souls.

And perhaps that is precisely why Shabbos continues to captivate even those outside the Jewish world. In an age of burnout, anxiety, distraction, and endless digital noise, the idea that one day each week can become sacred time feels revolutionary.

This past week, Ahuva received a phone call completely out of the blue from a woman named Rosemary. Rosemary had grown up next door to the Drizins in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where Ahuva spent part of her childhood. Nearly forty-two years had passed since they had last spoken.

Rosemary had tracked Ahuva down through social media because she felt compelled to share something.

Rosemary had recently been reminiscing with her mother about childhood memories and how unique it was for her to witness religion woven into every aspect of her Jewish neighbors’ lives. She remembered the Sukka, the way they would knock instead of ringing the doorbell on Shabbos, and being at Ahuva’s baby brother’s Bris. She also remembered that the “We Want Moshiach Now” poster hanging on Ahuva’s wall gave her the sense that the world was connected in some bigger way — that everyone was part of a shared effort to elevate the world and move it forward together.

Forty-two years later, she was still moved by it.

Imagine that.

No lectures. No persuasion. No grand campaign. Just the quiet holiness of living Jewish authentically.

That may be one of the deepest messages connecting Behar and Bechukosai. Holiness is not created only through dramatic moments. It emerges through consistency. Through rhythms. Through building a life shaped by sacred values week after week, year after year.

The Torah promises in Bechukosai that when we live aligned with Hashem’s vision, the world itself becomes elevated and harmonious. Jewish life was never meant to remain hidden behind closed doors. We are called to become an “ohr lagoyim” — a light unto the nations.

The prophets describe the days of Moshiach with the words: “V’naharu eilav kol hagoyim” — “all the nations will stream toward it.” The world itself will recognize the beauty of G-dliness and seek connection to holiness.

For much of history, that vision seemed distant. But today we are witnessing glimmers of it unfolding before our eyes.

A president publicly speaks about Shabbos. A woman calls forty-two years later to describe how a neighbor’s Jewish life impacted her. Millions encounter Jewish life publicly, proudly, and unapologetically in ways unimaginable just generations ago.

We are living in a time when the light of Torah can travel farther than ever before.

And perhaps that is the deeper message and opportunity of this moment.

It is not enough to admire Shabbos from afar. Shabbos must be experienced. It must be tasted, heard, felt, and shared.

So many Jews can trace their connection to Judaism back to a single Shabbos table — one Friday night filled with song, warmth, meaning, laughter, challah, and conversation. Sometimes one invitation can echo across an entire lifetime. Just ask Rosemary, who forty-two years later still remembers the feeling of walking into a Jewish home where every detail of life seemed infused with holiness and purpose.

And in a beautiful providence, this coming Shabbos is the Shabbos before Shavuos — the very Shabbos the Rebbe, in 1986, designated as “The Shabbos of Unity,” commemorating the Jewish people’s arrival at Mount Sinai, where they stood כאיש אחד בלב אחד — “like one person with one heart.”

Before receiving the Torah, the Jewish people first learned how to stand together. Unity became the vessel for revelation.

Perhaps that is why Shabbos remains Judaism’s greatest unifier — a sacred space where families reconnect, communities gather, souls breathe, and we remember what truly matters.

So here is a simple challenge for all of us this week:
Invite someone for Shabbos.

A neighbor.
A friend.
Someone new to the community.
Someone who may never have experienced an authentic Shabbos before.

Open your home. Share a song, a story, a bowl of chicken soup, a l’chaim, a little Torah, a little warmth.

Because sometimes changing the world does not begin with grand speeches or dramatic gestures.

Sometimes it begins with lighting candles, making Kiddush, and making one more seat at the table.

And perhaps the greatest reminder of all is this:

You never know who is watching your Shabbos table.
You never know which candle, which song, which moment of holiness may illuminate a soul for decades to come.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

What My Parents Taught Me About Honoring Parents

Thu, 30 Apr 2026 1:37:00 PM

(A Make-Up Reflection for Acharei–Kedoshim, with a Message for Emor)

I didn’t get to write last week for Acharei–Kedoshim. So consider this a meaningful “make-up”—one that, in truth, may be even more fitting now.

Because the message of Kedoshim doesn’t pass with the week. It lingers. It asks to be lived.

At the heart of the parsha is one of the most powerful directives in the Torah: “Each person shall revere his mother and father.”

The Torah doesn’t just command honor—it commands reverence. Our sages explain that there are two dimensions: honor is what we do—providing, caring, supporting. Reverence is how we do it—with humility, sensitivity, and deep inner respect.

You can do everything right on paper—and still miss the point.

Because the Torah is not only interested in actions. It is interested in relationships.

And perhaps this has never been more relevant.

Recent studies from organizations like the American Psychological Association and Pew Research Center point to a growing emotional distance between parents and children. Many adult children are supporting their parents in practical ways—but fewer report genuine closeness. At the same time, many parents feel cared for—but not truly valued.

Adding to this is a modern trend that deserves thoughtful consideration. The language of “boundaries” has become central in contemporary therapeutic culture. In its proper place, it is important—even necessary—especially in situations involving harm or dysfunction.

But increasingly, it is being applied to ordinary tensions and differences. Discomfort becomes distance. Friction becomes separation. And sometimes, relationships that could be repaired are simply removed.

The Torah offers a counterbalance—not by denying complexity, but by elevating responsibility. It reminds us that relationships—especially foundational ones—are not just about comfort. They are about growth, patience, humility, and commitment.

I didn’t learn this from a book.

I learned it from my parents.

When my maternal grandfather, Zeide Isser, had to travel from Melbourne to New York for major throat cancer surgery and treatment, my mother left our home for close to three months to be by his side—caring for him with unwavering devotion. My father stepped away from his business during that time to support her and care for his father-in-law. It wasn’t convenient. It wasn’t easy. But it was instinctive.

I remember my father sharing that before the surgery, my grandfather’s primary concern was that his beard not be compromised (in keeping with the verse in last week’s parsha about preserving the sanctity of the beard). That detail stayed with me—not only as a reflection of my grandfather’s values, but as a window into the reverence that defined the entire experience.

And it didn’t end there.

When they returned to Australia, my grandfather moved into our home for the next two years. I watched my mother care for him with extraordinary love and dedication. Because he could no longer eat solid food, she would painstakingly puree his meals—ensuring not just that he could eat, but that every bite was nourishing, thoughtful, and dignified.

This wasn’t just care.

This was honor infused with reverence.

My parents weren’t just meeting his needs—they were protecting his dignity.

That experience shaped me. It taught me that honoring parents is not measured only by what we give, but by how deeply we value the one we are giving to.

At the same time, the Torah is realistic. Caring for aging parents can be emotionally and physically demanding. Roles shift. Independence fades. The people who once carried us may now depend on us. This is not simple.

But perhaps that is precisely where the mitzvah lives.

To preserve dignity when it is most vulnerable.
To give without making the other feel like a burden.
To hold onto reverence—even when familiarity makes it easy to lose.

The Talmud goes so far as to equate honoring parents with honoring G-d Himself. These relationships are not merely biological—they are sacred.

And that brings us to this week’s parsha, Emor.

The opening verse teaches: “Say to the Kohanim… and you shall tell them”—from which our sages derive, “l’hazhir gedolim al haktanim”—that the elders must guide the younger ones.

But the word l’hazhir also means to shine.

Not just to instruct—but to illuminate.

Not just to teach—but to model.

That is what my parents did. They didn’t just tell me what it means to honor parents.

They showed me.

They shined it.

And that may be the deepest lesson of all.

Because in the end, the most powerful education is not what we say.

It is what we live.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

From Isolation to Song: What Birds Can Teach Us About Healing a Lonely World

Fri, 17 Apr 2026 9:52:00 AM

Dear Friends,

We are living through what many are calling a loneliness epidemic.

In a world more connected than ever—where a message can cross continents in seconds—more people than ever report feeling unseen, unheard, and alone. It’s a striking paradox: never have we had so many ways to communicate, and yet never have we struggled so deeply with connection.

Which makes Tazria–Metzora feel uncannily current.

The Torah describes the metzora—one afflicted with tzaraas (biblical leprosy)—as being sent outside the camp: badad yeisheiv, he must sit alone. Our sages explain that this isolation is not arbitrary. It is measure for measure. One who used speech to create distance between people—through gossip, negativity, or subtle dismissal—experiences that distance himself.

But the Torah does not leave him there.

The path back is just as deliberate. As part of his purification, the metzora (leper) brings an unusual offering: two birds.

Why birds?

The Rebbe explains (per Rashi’s commentary) that birds are defined by their voice—their song. Unlike other creatures, birds are constantly chirping, calling, and communicating. Their sound is not destructive; it is rhythmic, expressive, even uplifting. The metzora (leper), whose speech fractured relationships, must relearn the art of communication from a creature whose very identity is song.

Because the opposite of harmful speech is not silence.
It is positive life-giving expression.

I was reminded of this recently listening to a podcast interview with Hadassah Carlebach, who at 99 years old was reminiscing about her visits in the 1960s with the Rebbetzin Chana Schneerson (the Rebbe’s mother). The Rebbetzin had endured profound hardship in Communist Russia—loss, displacement, and years of quiet suffering. And yet, Hadassah described how often they would simply sit together and sing Chassidic melodies.

No speeches. No explanations. Just song.

And in those moments, you could sense something lifting. The weight didn’t disappear—but it was softened, held, given expression. The song became a kind of language beyond words—a way of reconnecting, of healing.

Classical Jewish sources recognized in birds something we are only beginning to appreciate again. The Talmud relates that King Solomon understood the language of birds, hearing in their calls a form of meaningful communication. And in Perek Shirah (a chapter of song, composed 500 BCE - 1100 BCE), each creature is described as offering its own verse of praise. In the Torah’s view, birds are not just making noise—they are giving voice to connection, to harmony, to something beyond themselves.

Modern research echoes this in its own way. Songbirds use structured patterns and even “dialects.” Many learn their songs socially, much like humans acquire language. Their calls help establish bonds, reduce stress, and maintain cohesion within a group.

Birds don’t just communicate. They connect.

And perhaps that is the Torah’s deeper message.

The metzora (leper) is not only being cleansed of a past failing; he is being reintroduced into society with a new awareness: speech is not just a tool—it is a force. It can isolate, or it can invite. It can fracture, or it can bind.

We tend to think loneliness is solved by increasing contact—more platforms, more access, more noise. But Tazria–Metzora suggests otherwise.

Connection is not built on how much we speak. It is built on how we speak.

A careless word can distance. A thoughtful word can draw close. A sincere compliment, a genuine question, a moment of presence—these are the “songs” that rebuild community.

The Kohen, notably, is the one who restores the metzora—not a doctor. Because the deepest healing is not physical, but relational: to be seen again, named again, welcomed back in.

In a world filled with noise, the Torah offers a quiet directive: Not more words. Better words. Because sometimes, the distance between isolation and belonging is only a few words—spoken the right way. And sometimes, all it takes… is a song.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

A Morsel of Redemption

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 3:40:00 PM

Reflections on My Father’s Shloshim.

There is a quiet but weighty custom when it comes to a matzeivah (headstone): to be exceedingly careful with the words that are etched into stone. Not to embellish. Not to exaggerate. To capture something true—something essential—because those words are not merely descriptive; they are, in a sense, a testimony. The neshamah (soul) is held accountable to them.

At the top of my father’s matzeivah are the words: “Moiker Rabbanan”—one who honored and appreciated Torah scholars.

It is a simple phrase. But it says much.

My father, Mendel New, did not just “respect rabbis” in the abstract. It was something you could see, something you could feel. Whether it was visiting Rebbes, rabbis and fundraisers who came from Israel, local rabbis from other communities, and of course, his deep reverence for the Rebbe—there was a consistency, a sincerity, a genuine sense of respect that defined him.

These memories came flooding back over this past Pesach.

From a young age, on the night of Shvi’i (the seventh day of) Shel Pesach, after the Yom Tov meal at home, my father would take us to the home of Rabbi Groner, the community rabbi whom he respected so deeply and worked alongside for over four decades. Each year, Rabbi Groner would host a farbrengen that stretched late into the night—filled with Chassidic stories, heartfelt niggunim, and words that challenged a person to grow.

Those farbrengens were unforgettable. They had everything: inspiration, warmth, and—true to Rabbi Groner’s personality—a certain theatrical flair that made them as engaging as they were elevating. But more than anything, they were wrapped in an atmosphere of Chassidic camaraderie, where titles and pretense were left at the door, and what remained was something real.

My father did not grow up in a Chabad home—his father was a Gerrer Chassid. The culture of a farbrengen was not something he inherited. And yet, he embraced it fully—out of respect for Rabbi Groner, out of appreciation for its authenticity, because he recognized that a farbrengen is a space where the soul speaks more honestly.

The next day, Acharon Shel Pesach, (the last day of Pesach) the community would gather again—this time for Seudas Moshiach.

This too was not something my father grew up with, but something he came to cherish deeply after marrying into my mother’s Chabad family. In Melbourne, it became one of the highlights of the year: long wooden tables, simple benches, and a room filled beyond capacity with yeshiva students, Yeshiva community members, and members of the broader community—all drawn by the unique atmosphere of commemorating the anticipated final redemption and the last stop of the journey that began at the exodus from Egypt, with four cups of wine, Matzah, niggunim, and inspiring speakers.

And then there was the Rebbe’s matzah.

For many years, a piece of matzah from the Rebbe, distributed on Erev Pesach in New York, would make its way to Melbourne—arriving, almost miraculously, just in time for Seudas Moshiach on the last day of Pesach. But after traveling 12,000 miles, it no longer arrived whole. It arrived as crumbs—morsels.

I remember how carefully the package would be opened, how each person would step forward, reverently receiving the smallest piece. And somehow, that tiny fragment felt powerful.

It’s hard to explain how something so small could carry so much. But perhaps we understand it intuitively. A tiny pill can affect the entire body—we may not fully grasp the science, but we know and trust the effect. In much the same way, that morsel of the Rebbe’s matzah carried something far greater than its size: a taste of Moshiach—infusing the soul with faith, strength, idealism, purpose, joy, and the drive to help bring redemption closer.

Perhaps herein lies a connection to this week’s Torah portion: Parshas Shemini.

In one of the most intense moments in the Torah, after the passing of Nadav and Avihu, the Torah records Aharon’s response in just two words: “Vayidom Aharon”—and Aharon was silent. No speeches. No explanations. Just presence.

Because sometimes, the deepest truths are not taught through words, but through the quiet consistency of what we do.

As I reflect on my father’s life and its impact on me, I realize that many of the most powerful lessons he gave were never spoken—they were lived. They were in the way he took my hand, year after year, and brought me to a farbrengen on Shvi’i Shel Pesach, in the way he made sure we showed up for Seudas Moshiach, in the way he placed himself—and us—in environments of growth, authenticity, and connection.

In so doing, he didn’t sit me down and explain what matters most in life. He showed me. Silently. And those silent actions spoke volumes—about what to value, what to prioritize, and what a Jew should strive toward.

We don’t always need grand speeches to shape a life. Sometimes, all it takes is a small act, a steady example, a quiet hand leading the way.

And sometimes, all it takes is one morsel of matzah to nourish a lifetime of faith.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Ruvi New

Dedicated in loving memory of Menachem Mendel ben Yisroel HaCam.

Rabbi Ruvi New receiving Matzah from the Rebbe, 5 Nissan 1991

When the Waters Tremble: From the Red Sea to the Strait of Hormuz

Tue, 7 Apr 2026 12:49:00 PM

The headlines say geopolitics.

The timing says something far more ancient.

There are moments in history when events seem to move in rhythm with something deeper than geopolitics. Even a casual observer of the current tensions surrounding Iran cannot help but notice: the timing, the language, the stakes… they feel Biblical.

When the opening strikes of this conflict first emerged, they coincided with the Shabbos Zachor when we are commanded to remember Amalek - the force that rises in every generation to challenge the destiny of the Jewish people. That timing was not incidental. It framed the events from the outset, reminding us that what we are witnessing is not merely political or strategic, but part of a deeper, recurring struggle woven into Jewish history.

And now, as developments intensify, we arrive at another striking convergence.

An ultimatum surrounding the Strait of Hormuz - one of the most strategically vital waterways in the world - hangs in the balance. And its timing aligns with Shvi’i Shel Pesach (the Seventh Night of Pesach) - the very night when the waters of the Red Sea split, when Pharaoh and Egypt met their final downfall, and when Hashem revealed Himself openly before an entire nation.

Geographically, the Strait of Hormuz is not part of the Red Sea; it connects the Persian Gulf to the Arabian Sea, while the Red Sea lies to the west, separated by the Arabian Peninsula. Yet both are narrow waterways carrying immense global significance - one sustaining ancient empires, the other fueling the modern world.

But the deeper connection is not geographic - it is symbolic.

In the Torah, water represents concealment. The sea covers what lies beneath it. When the sea split, it was not merely a miracle - it was a revelation. What is usually hidden became visible. The world itself “opened,” and the Divine reality underlying existence became undeniable.

That same dynamic echoes now.

As the world watches the waters of the Middle East, we are reminded that beneath the surface of history, something deeper is unfolding. What appears as political tension may be part of a Divine choreography guiding the world toward its ultimate purpose.

And the timing invites us not only to observe - but to respond.

Because Shvi’i Shel Pesach is not just about what happened then. It is about what can happen now.

Each of us carries within our own “sea” - places where clarity is submerged, where Hashem’s presence feels hidden beneath routine, worry, or distraction. The personal work of this night is to experience our own Krias Yam Suf - our own splitting of the sea. To push past the surface and behold, even briefly, the reality of “זה א-לי ואנוהו” - this is my G-d.

Chassidus teaches that the revelation of the seventh day of Pesach is a forerunner of the revelation of Moshiach. That energy crescendos on the eighth day of Pesach, with the Baal Shem Tov’s Seudas Moshiach - a time to internalize a consciousness of redemption, not as a distant dream, but as a lived reality.

So as we follow the news, and as we pray for the safety of our brothers and sisters in Israel, we must remember: our role is not only to watch history unfold, but to shape its inner meaning.

We do that not with headlines - but with holiness.

With presence.
With prayer.
With participation.

Join us:

Shvi’i Shel Pesach - Wednesday
Relive the splitting of the sea—where concealment gives way to revelation.

Yizkor – Thursday Morning

Stand in sacred memory, connecting generations and drawing strength from eternity.

Seudas Moshiach with Rabbi Chaim Drizin - Thursday 6:30 PM
Living in Redemptive Consciousness
Step into a mindset where redemption is not just coming—but already unfolding.

Because perhaps the most important question is not what is happening in the waters of the world—

But whether the waters within us are ready to part.

Good Yom Tov and Chag Samech!

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Beginning of the End

Fri, 27 Mar 2026 9:29:00 AM

Sometimes, the most powerful miracles are not when an enemy is defeated from the outside - but when it begins to fall apart from within.

As we watch events unfolding in Iran and across the region, much of the conversation focuses on military strength, strategy, and global alliances. But beneath the surface, something deeper may be taking place - not just confrontation between enemies, but fracturing within the very forces that project power.

And that idea takes us straight into the heart of this Shabbos - Shabbos HaGadol.

The great miracle commemorated on this Shabbos is described in Tehillim as: “למכה מצרים בבכוריהם” - Hashem struck Egypt through its firstborn. But our sages explain that this wasn’t a conventional blow from Above. It was something far more unusual. The Egyptian firstborn, sensing the impending plague, rose up against their own people. Egypt began to unravel - from within.

This was not just another plague. It was the beginning of the end.

Because when a system starts turning against itself, when its own inner structure begins to crack, its collapse is no longer a question of if - but when.

Egypt, the superpower of its time, did not only fall because of external force. It fell because its internal certainty, its sense of control, began to disintegrate.

And that is the deeper message of Shabbos HaGadol.

Redemption doesn’t always begin with dramatic, open miracles. Sometimes it begins quietly, almost invisibly - when the very forces that once seemed invincible begin to weaken from within.

On a global level, we may be witnessing moments like that now. Not just the clash of nations, but the instability of ideologies, the exposure of cracks in systems that once projected confidence and control.

But as always, Torah is not just a lens to understand the world - it is a mirror to understand ourselves.

Each of us carries our own “Mitzrayim” - our constraints, fears, habits, and limiting narratives. And often we wait for an external miracle to free us. We imagine that change must come from the outside.

Shabbos HaGadol teaches otherwise.

True freedom begins when the inner structure of those limitations starts to give way. When the voice that says “I can’t” begins to weaken. When the patterns that held us back begin to lose their authority.

The miracle is not only that we are saved - it is that what once controlled us no longer can.

That is the quiet beginning of redemption.

As we approach Pesach, the festival of liberation, we are invited to notice these moments - both in the world around us and within our own lives. Moments when something shifts. When certainty cracks. When what once felt immovable suddenly feels… fragile.

Those are not signs of chaos.

They are signs of change.

Because long before the sea split… Egypt had already begun to fall apart.

And perhaps that is what Shabbos HaGadol is here to remind us:

Redemption doesn’t only arrive with a bang.
Sometimes, it begins with a fracture.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

STRAIGHT DOWN THE LINE

Fri, 20 Mar 2026 10:33:00 AM

In Tribute to my father, Menachem Mendel ben Yisroel, הכ׳מ

Dear Friends,

“I consider it an honor to have you on my flight.” No flight attendant had ever said that to me before my flight from Melbourne to LA en route to FLL on Thursday. But that’s because no flight attendant had ever asked me about my father until the one on my United flight, who casually asked me where I was from and where I was headed, which led to me telling her that I was coming from my father’s funeral, and sharing a little bit about my father with her. “I hope I can emulate him in some way,” she said. “You already have,” I said, by asking me about him and being genuinely interested in hearing about him!” The “honor” of which she spoke was not my honor, but my father's.

Being curious and genuinely interested in people was one of my father’s qualities. What does it take to be that way? To some extent, it can be chalked up to personality. Some people are naturally more interested in other people. But curiosity is not just about a personality type, it is a character trait that anyone can work on.

Understanding the difference between personality and character is critical to our growth as human beings. Personality is our nature, character is our nurture. It’s easy to hear about great people and say, well, I’m just not that type, I’m a different type of personality - it’s not in my nature to be that way. I am who I am - take me or leave me.

Not so, when it comes to character. Anyone can build a character trait. You just have to want to. And at the end of the day, that’s how people will remember you. These are the stories that people will tell about you. Sure, personality is part of your persona, and talent is part of your tool box, but that’s not where virtue lies. Virtue lies in the choices we make, specifically the type of choices that take us beyond ourselves.

In his sermon on Shabbos at the Yeshiva Shul in Melbourne where my father prayed daily since the day it was built over 60 years ago, Rabbi Zirkind who is the new Rabbi of the community, shared the following story: A few years ago before he took up the position as community Rabbi he was invited to spend the High Holiday season in Melbourne with the community and was asked to lead the Musaf service on Rosh Hashanah. He was hesitant to do so, because he knew that the community was accustomed to the way his late grandfather, Rabbi Yitzchok Groner who served as Rabbi for over 50 years, led the service with a very distinct and unique “nusach” - melodic style, and for the community that Nusach/style was sacrosanct.

Despite being Rabbi Groner’s grandson, he had a style of his own, hence the hesitancy. But the community insisted that he lead the service, so he did, his own way. After the service was over my father came over to him and said: “it was different to what we are used to, but that’s ok, we’ll get used to the way you daven your way.” Those words were just the relief and validation that he needed. “Mr. New was a master at making space for others” concluded Rabbi Zirkind.

In many ways, I think this story gets to the core of the hundreds of stories we heard throughout the week of Shiva. The core of humility, wholesomeness, genuineness, uprightness, kindness, sensitivity, generosity, curiosity, care, activism, engagement, commitment - all virtues my father had, is the ability to make space for others. That’s not a personality trait, that’s a character trait. It’s a deep seated conviction and choice to carve out space within oneself for another. And it’s not a one off, it’s day by day, minute by minute. Do I stay in my own exclusive space, or do I carve out space for another, be it for G-d or my fellow man?

In Chassidic language, it’s called “bittul,” yielding inner space to a calling. Only a Tzadik lives consistently in that space; for the rest of us it’s a challenge. But if I confuse personality and character, I may not even challenge myself, hiding behind the facade of personality. Like this guy who once said to me: “you know me, I’m a ‘straight up guy,’ I say like I see it, no filters.” That’s a classic case of the confusion between personality and character. Perhaps you have a more “unfiltered” kind of personality, but are you now off the hook for saying whatever you want to say in whatever way you want to say it? This is where character building kicks in - reigning in my unfiltered personality to one of more refined character.

This is the gauntlet being put before me, as I begin to process some of what I have heard about my father this past week of Shiva in addition to what I already knew. I share this because I think he challenges us all to work on our character and to be better, fuller versions of ourselves. And because he was a very down-to-earth, normal person, not a saint whose piety seems unattainable. He leaves a legacy of character that is very relatable, emulatable, possible, attainable, maybe not in its totality, but certainly in doses: daily, hourly, minute by minute.

Let me break that down.

Daily/Hourly

How I treat a day is a choice. Am I going to chill it or fill it?

My father’s days were full days. He was very accountable to time. He was always punctual and purposeful. His day, when I was growing up, was very regimented: He began with exercising and stretching his back. Morning minyan, breakfast, off to work before eight. He came home just before six for dinner and depending on the night, he either attended a Torah class, a meeting, went out fundraising or signed checks for the Yeshiva. He was not a fan of TV (much as his kids were..). He just saw it as a waste of time. His news source was the daily papers, which he read over breakfast.

Occasionally he’d watch some sports with us. After retirement, he was never idle, always productive. As much as he was always doing something productive, it was not in a frenetic, stressful way, it was more of a showing up to every minute kind of way. Which is why he was successful at balancing his family life, business career and community involvement. He showed up to each one fully present.

Minute by Minute

Let’s define that as fleeting moments, temporary opportunities of engagement or interaction.

Often I have a choice, I can notice you or pretend that I don’t. I can engage or ignore you. I’m not in the mood. I’m stressed. I don’t have one inch of space inside me for you.

My father was very big on greeting people and even in the briefest of exchanges, displaying genuine interest. Many of the younger generation who came for Shiva, shared how they didn’t know him that well personally, but that didn’t stop him from greeting them and inquiring about them. He made people feel noticed, feel like they mattered. Small gestures. Big impacts.

Reactionary or Proactive?

Most people will respond to a call to help to some degree. My father’s generosity was not just reactionary. Many shared stories of how he reached out to them with unsolicited help, because he could tell they needed it, either having heard something or seen something. Like the story we heard about a family who my father went to meet to discuss a tuition plan because they had fallen behind and noticed that one of the children was sleeping on the floor without a mattress. The next day a mattress and bedding were delivered to the home

Bend it or go Straight Down the Line?

In business we can choose to take short cuts or go about things “straight down the line” which is a phrase my father would often say. His impeccable ethical standards won the admiration of the business world, whether towards his fellow man or to G-d. A friend related at the Shiva a story he had heard from someone that did business with my father. They were negotiating a deal on fabric. My father started the negotiation at $70 a yard, knowing that the price would come down in the negotiation. The client offered $60. My father replied that the sale price will be $50 and explained that in his mind that was the price he was prepared to sell for and he wasn’t going to take the higher offer. From that point on his client said, no need to negotiate deals in the future. Whatever price you ask, you get.

A relative related how he consulted with my father as to whether he should use a Halachically acceptable mechanism to keep his retail store open on the Jewish Holidays by selling it to a non-Jew for the days of the Holiday. My father, who related to us many times over the years how non-Jewish clients respected him for closing his business on Jewish holidays, recommended to the relative that he should not do it and close the store. He didn’t listen. A short while later, his biggest customer who accounted for 20% of his business, suddenly took his business elsewhere. His lease was up for renewal and the landlord tripled the rent making it impossible for him to continue at that location. He leased a new space and decided that he would not remain open on the Holidays. Shortly thereafter the client who had suddenly taken their business elsewhere reached out and renewed their business relationship. It wasn’t hard for my relative to connect the dots. Whether with clients or G-d, best to do things “straight down the line”.

That's the Mendel New way.

This week we read the Torah portion of Vayikra which is dominated by the subject of Sacrifices/Korbonos. The word “Korbon” comes from karov—to come close.

But how does one come close to Hashem?

By offering something of oneself. By stepping aside. By yielding space.

Every korban is, in essence, a declaration:

“I am not the center. I make room for something greater.”

I am walking straight down the line!

Interestingly, it is customary for heirs not to take the shoes of a deceased parent. There are several reasons for this, but perhaps there’s a message here.

As I heard all these stories about my father with the occasional “you’ve got big shoes to fill,” I kept thinking there’s no way I can fill those shoes. But I don’t think that that’s what I or anyone ought to strive for. It’s not about filling the shoes; it’s about walking the straight line he paved, one step at a time, one moment at a time, one choice at a time.

I told my children and some of my nieces and nephews, if you are ever in doubt as to what the right thing to do is, ask yourself, what would Zeide Mendel do in this situation and you will never go wrong. You will always be walking straight down the line.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

“Welcome Mr. New!”

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 11:25:00 AM

One of my father’s many fine character traits was that he was very particular about recognizing, acknowledging and showing appreciation to people for even their efforts or gestures, large or small.

I am truly humbled by the outpouring of love and support I have received from so many of you. May G-d Almighty repay you for your kindness and compassion with abundant blessings and Simcha in every area of life.

I’m sharing with you an adapted version of the eulogy I delivered at my father’s funeral on Thursday, attended by many hundreds of local community members. Enroute to the cemetery, the Aron (coffin) passed by the Chabad educational institutions to which he was so dedicated, giving the students the opportunity to pay their respects. (see pics)

As I wrote in my previous email, I learned of my father’s passing shortly after singing “Baruch Habo” the traditional “welcome” - that begins a Chuppah ceremony. Upon some imaginative reflection, it occurred to me that perhaps as I was singing Baruch Habo under the sky, I was echoing a symphony of voices in Heaven welcoming my father’s soul, with “Baruch Habo” - welcome to heaven.

The first greeter is the Malach Michoel the Angel of Kindness: “thank you for the abundant kindness, compassion, empathy and generosity you brought to the world. Baruch Habo.”

The next greeter is the Malach Gavriel the Angel of Strength and Discipline: “Thank you for your strong and uncompromising commitment to Jewish life, to your honesty, integrity and authenticity, to your deeply anchored values and principles. We so admired your tenacity, like the way you mustered the strength in your advanced age to walk to the front of the shul to hear the Chazzan and be able to answer a Barchu, a Kedusha, an Amen Yehei Shmei Rabo. The Alter Rebbe was so right when he said that we the Malachim (angels) would give anything in the world for one Amen Yehei Shmei Rabo. Reb Mendel thank you for lighting up the heavens and giving us a taste of what a real Amen Yehei Shmei Rabo feels like. Baruch Habo.”

My father and his brothers were the first generation of his family born in Australia - the transitional generation from the Alter Heim (old home of Eastern Europe) to the New world. The future of Yiddishkeit (Jewish life) was in the balance. Could it survive in the modern, western world?

“Baruch Habo tayere (dear) Mendele” say his parents Zeide Srulik and Bobbe Rivtche - “thank you for being such a strong and stellar steward of our sacred Mesorah (tradition) for bringing the Alter Heim (old home) to the Nayer Shtub (new house).

Every weekday morning before my father left to work, my mother would make his tie with her signature Windsor knot - a double knot that Halacha (Jewish law) treats as a Kesher Shel Kayomo - an everlasting (knot) bond. With glowing radiance emanating from my mother’s Neshome, she now says to her beloved Mendel; “For seventy years we bonded in the world below, now we will enjoy our Kesher Shel Kayama eternally together in the world above. Baruch Habo my dear.”

Shomayim (Heaven) can be a pretty difficult place to navigate, there’s ‘Haicholois’ and ‘Nesivois’, portals and pathways galore. But my father need not fear ever getting lost, as my brother Chaim calls out and says “Baruch Habo Dad!” Let me show you around!”

Long before GPS technology, Chaim had this ability to arrive in a city he had never been to before and know exactly how to get around. And now my father’s right hand man is right there by his side again.

As they stroll the hallways of heaven, voices call out: “Mr. New, Mr. New! Remember me? I was a customer of yours who rediscovered Yiddiskeit through doing business with you. Thank you and Baruch Habo!”

“How about me?” cries out a woman who had been a lonely widow for many years. “I was a guest at your Shabbos table and you and your wife made me feel like a queen. I am forever grateful to you, Baruch Habo!”

“I could never afford the tuition for my kids at Yeshiva," says another, “but you made sure I was never turned away. You ensured that my children received a proper Jewish education! Baruch Habo!”

“And my family couldn’t afford a place for me in the Montefiore Home for the Aged, and you made sure I too was not turned away, that I could live out my years in safety and dignity. Baruch Habo!”

“I needed a loan for a down payment on my first house, and I didn’t qualify for a bank loan. Thanks to your loan I was able to provide a home for my family. You put me on my feet! Thank you and Baruch Habo!”

Chaim turns to my father and says: “Dad, this is starting to feel like your daily walk on Carlisle street - everybody knows you here!”

One of the most sacred areas of Heaven is the Mesivta D’rakia - the Heavenly House of learning. Chaim shows my father in, and there’s Uncle Louis listening to a shiur (class) in the Kollel section, when he looks up and sees his brother and says “my learning has never been the same without you. Baruch Habo, dear brother!” And so these two brothers, best of friends and Chavrusas (learning partners) begin to learn together where they left off about a year and half ago, pausing only when they hear a sweet and familiar melodic voice begin Ashrei. It’s unmistakably their elder brother Meyer’s voice. The brothers are together again.

Suddenly, there’s a buzz reverberating all over Heaven and Neshomas (souls) and Malochim (angels) are frantically headed in the same direction. “Come on Dad,” says Chaim. “Looks like there’s a surprise Farbrengen about to begin.” The Heichal (hall) is packed; unphased, Chaim seats my father right at the top end of the table near the Rebbe’s.

Uncle Shmilik has just struck up a Nikolayevdiker niggun (chassidic melody) as he sits alongside my grandfather (his brother-in-law) Zeide Isser who says “Baruch Habo Mein Tayere Eidim.” (welcome my dear son in law). “Remember when you got engaged, that I insisted you say a Maamer Chassidus (Chassidic discourse) at your Kabolas Ponim (groom’s reception) and you had no idea what I was talking about? It will all become clear to you now. You're about to understand a Chassidic discourse like never before.”

After the delivering the Maamer, The Rebbe motions to my father to come up to him, pours him a big cup of wine and with a big smile says “L’chaim V’lovrocho - a groisen yasher koach (a big thank you) for everything you did for my Moisdois (institutions) in Melbourne - the Yeshiva and Bais Rivka, bguf (physically) b’mammoin (financially) u’beneshome. (spiritually) Baruch Habo Reb Mendel!”

The Farbrengen is over and Rabbi Groner who led the Chabad institutions in Melbourne for over fifty years, makes his way over to my father and says, “Mendel! Mir Hoben Geakert un Geziet un Geboit, we tilled, we planted, we built. The Rebbe blaibt nisht kein bal chov. The Rebbe will see to it that whatever we started will continue to flourish and grow. Baruch Habo!”
The Talmud records that there are four questions one is asked by the Beis Din Shel Mal0 - the Heavenly Court. There was no need to ask my father, so instead the court didn’t ask them as questions, but declared them as statements:

נשאת ונתת באמונה
Your business dealings were with honesty and integrity

קבעת עתים לתורה
You set aside time to learn Torah

עסקת בפרי׳ ורבי׳
You built a beautiful family

צפית לישועה
You prayed for redemption

ברוך הבא מנחם מענדל בן ישראל!
Welcome to Heaven, Menachem Mendel ben Yisroel!

May his life inspire us all to live life a little better, a little higher, a little humbler, a little deeper, a little kinder, a little nicer, a little more generous, a little more committed, a little more active, a little more connected.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom, with love from Down Under,
Rabbi Ruvi New

Thank You, Tucker and Candace

Fri, 6 Mar 2026 12:25:00 PM

Thank You, Tucker and Candace
When our critics accidentally remind us of Judaism’s deepest aspirations.

Dear Friends,

This week, two unlikely teachers helped remind Jews everywhere of one of the most central ideas of our faith.

Their names are Tucker Carlson and Candace Owens.

And for that — strangely enough — we might almost say thank you.

King David once wrote in Tehillim: “מֵאֹיְבַי תְּחַכְּמֵנִי — From my enemies I gain wisdom.” Sometimes our adversaries end up reminding us of truths we ourselves may not always articulate clearly enough.

I had already written my weekly parsha article early Thursday morning when commentary began circulating online suggesting that Chabad was somehow behind the war with Iran as part of a plan to rebuild the Third Beis Hamikdash (Temple in Jerusalem). Around the same time, backing up Tucker, was Candace Owens, who posted that Chabad is building secret tunnels and poses a hidden danger to society.

The accusations were so bizarre that they were almost too “delicious” to ignore.

Yet in a strange way, King David’s words echo here: sometimes our enemies remind us of truths.

Take the claim that Jews — or Chabad in particular — seek to rebuild the Beis Hamikdash, the Third Temple in Jerusalem.

If by that they mean that Jews pray every day for the rebuilding of the Temple, then yes — guilty as charged. But it is hardly a Chabad idea. It is one of the most ancient and universal aspirations of the Jewish people.

At the conclusion of every Amidah, three times each day, Jews pray:

“Yehi ratzon… sheyibaneh Beis Hamikdash bimheira b’yameinu.”
“May it be Your will that the Holy Temple be rebuilt speedily in our days.”

This is not a hidden agenda. It is printed in every Jewish prayer book.

But the Temple, in Jewish thought, is not about domination or conquest. The prophets describe it as a house of prayer for all nations, a place from which moral clarity and peace will radiate to the entire world. When Hashem’s presence is openly revealed there once again, humanity will rediscover the harmony for which it was created.

In other words, rebuilding the Temple is not about Jews ruling the world.

It is about the world finally discovering peace.

And what about the accusation regarding “secret tunnels”?

Even that claim has a curious historical echo.

Nearly 2,700 years ago, during the reign of King Hezekiah, Jerusalem faced invasion from the Assyrian empire led by Sennacherib. In preparation for the siege, King Hezekiah ordered the construction of a remarkable underground aqueduct to secure the city’s water supply.

That engineering marvel — known today as Hezekiah's Tunnel — still runs beneath the City of David, and thousands of visitors from around the world wade through its waters every year.

Jerusalem’s subterranean story does not end there. Jewish tradition also speaks of underground passageways that will one day connect the Mount of Olives to burial places throughout the Jewish diaspora, facilitating the resurrection of the dead in the Messianic era.

So in their own distorted and hostile ways, these commentators have inadvertently touched on ideas deeply rooted in Jewish faith, history, and longing.

And that brings us back to the deeper lesson of this moment.

The Talmud teaches that Hashem once considered appointing King Hezekiah as Mashiach. Why did it not happen? Because despite witnessing the miraculous destruction of the Assyrian army overnight, he failed to sufficiently sing praise and gratitude to Hashem.

History can be filled with miracles — yet we sometimes forget to acknowledge them.

Today we too are witnessing extraordinary events unfolding before our eyes. The United States standing alongside Israel to confront evil. Astonishing developments on the battlefield that seem almost impossible by conventional calculation — including the sudden elimination of Iran’s senior leadership in a single strike last Shabbos morning, removing the “Haman” of our time.

Observers ask: how could such powerful figures have exposed themselves so completely?

The answer may sound familiar to anyone who has read the Megillah.

It was Hashem’s doing.

Just as in the story of Purim, Divine providence often works through what appear to be ordinary events. Coincidences align. Plans unravel. The hidden hand guiding history slowly becomes visible.

And that may be the deepest wisdom we gain even from our enemies.

They may mock, distort, and accuse — but sometimes they inadvertently remind us of who we are.

A people who pray daily for the rebuilding of a Temple dedicated to peace.

A people who believe history is guided by a Divine hand.

And a people who must never forget, especially in moments like these, to recognize the miracles unfolding before our eyes — and to respond with gratitude, faith, and song.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

“Amalek” Is Back in the Headlines

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 8:42:00 PM

Not in ancient parchment.
Not in dusty history.
But in prime-time interviews and political debate.

When Tucker Carlson suggested in his interview with Ambassador Mike Hukabee, that Prime Minister Netanyahu’s invocation of Amalek was a call for genocide, he did more than misquote a verse — he distorted a moral category.

When Netanyahu told Israeli soldiers entering Gaza, “Remember what Amalek did to you,” he was not issuing a halachic decree against a people. He was invoking a Torah archetype: the first nation to attack the Jewish people without provocation, targeting the weak and defenseless, driven by hatred alone.

Amalek is not defined by ethnicity. Amalek is defined by ideology.

On October 7th, the world witnessed brutality that mirrored that ancient pattern — civilians hunted, families burned, children kidnapped. It was not political negotiation. It was cruelty as creed.

And this week, we read Parshas Zachor.

The Torah commands us to remember Amalek. The sages note that Amalek shares a numerical value with safek — doubt. Amalek’s first weapon is not the sword. It is moral fog.

The fog that blurs aggressor and victim.
The fog that questions Jewish indigeneity.
The fog that whispers: maybe your history is negotiable.

Which is why another development this week matters.

The Arizona State Legislature passed a resolution affirming the historic and biblical terminology of Judea and Samaria — recognizing the Jewish people’s ancient connection to the land and rejecting language that obscures that truth.

In an age of narrative warfare, clarity is courage.

Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel did not begin in 1948. It did not begin with the United Nations. It began with Avraham. With Yehoshua. With David HaMelech in Jerusalem.

There was a Jewish kingdom.
There was a Temple.
There are inscriptions, coins, and archaeological testimony.
And for thousands of years, Jews have faced Jerusalem in prayer.

To deny that is not historical nuance. It is erasure.

Parshas Zachor comes immediately before Purim for a reason.

Haman, a descendant of Amalek, sought annihilation. The Jewish response was not despair and not doubt. It was unity — “Lech kenos es kol haYehudim.” Gather the Jews. Stand together. Give to one another. Reclaim identity.

Purim teaches that when clarity returns, decrees collapse.
When unity rises, annihilation fails.
When Jews remember who they are, history bends.

Remembering Amalek today means refusing naïveté about ideologies that glorify death. It means defending life without apology. It means rejecting moral equivalence. And it means removing doubt about our own legitimacy — in our land, in our history, in our destiny.

Amalek thrives in confusion.
Purim erupts in clarity.

This Shabbos Zachor is not a call to hatred.
It is a call to memory.
It is a call to courage.
It is a call to remove doubt — once and for all.

And when doubt is removed, redemption begins.

Shabbat Shalom — and may we merit a Purim of revealed truth and unshakable clarity.

Rabbi Ruvi New

Valor Across Generations

Fri, 20 Feb 2026 4:10:00 PM

Last night, we witnessed valor across generations.

In a sold-out room of 260 people, two Jewish women — from two very different stages of life — stood before our community and reminded us what courage, responsibility, and leadership look like in real time.

More than a gala, it was a moment.

This week’s parsha opens with words that suddenly felt less ancient and more immediate:

“ויקחו לי תרומה” — Take for Me an offering.

In Parshas Terumah, Hashem commands the Jewish people to build the Mishkan — the first sanctuary, a dwelling place for the Divine Presence. But it would not be built through obligation or taxation. It would be built through generosity. Through hearts moved to give. And our sages teach something striking: The women led. They gave first. They gave eagerly. They understood instinctively that building a sanctuary is not about materials — it is about responsibility.

Last night at Boca Beach Chabad’s 2026 Women of Valor of Dinner, we witnessed a modern-day Terumah. A community gathered not merely to attend, but to affirm that when women lead, sanctuaries rise. We honored two women of valor from two generations — distinct in expression, united in purpose.

Billi Marcus represents the generation that builds foundations. For decades, alongside her husband Bernie Marcus, her philanthropy has strengthened hospitals, educational institutions, Jewish causes, and humanitarian initiatives across the country. During her deeply emotional tribute to Bernie, one could feel that their giving was never merely charitable. It was covenantal. It was partnership rooted in responsibility. Terumah teaches that if you are blessed, you build. If you are entrusted with resources, you create sanctuaries. Billi’s life reflects that truth.

But valor does not only construct. It also declares.

Montana Tucker’s presentation electrified the room. She spoke about standing proudly as a Jew in an age of rising antisemitism — not only undeterred by hate, but motivated by it. Strengthened by it. Determined to be even more visible. Her decision to wear a yellow ribbon dress to the Oscars was not fashion. It was moral clarity. She shared how major Jewish celebrities privately tell her they are proud and supportive — yet hesitate to speak publicly. Her challenge to them is simple: Be louder. Be clearer. Be prouder. She is using her platform not for comfort, but for calling. Not for applause, but for peoplehood.

Providentially, before the evening, as part of the opening video presentation featuring the Rebbe that set the tone for the evening, we had selected a 1991 exchange between the Rebbe and Miss Israel, Miri Goldfarb, to frame Montana’s role. In that encounter, the Rebbe told her that her title was not about beauty alone. It was a platform — an opportunity to spread light and holiness — and he urged her to share that responsibility with the other contestants.

And then something remarkable happened.

Providentially, seated in the room last night was Israel’s current Miss Israel, Melanie Shiraz — (who once served as President of Chabad at Berkeley during her college years.) A young woman who understands that visibility and conviction can coexist. She was recognized and presented with a Women of Valor necklace — a quiet but powerful symbol linking title to purpose.

In that moment, the message from 1991 was no longer archival.

It was alive.

Montana Tucker and Melanie Shiraz are, in different ways, modern expressions of Queen Esther. Two young, visible Jewish women. Two women who found themselves in positions of prominence they may not have planned. Two women who chose not comfort — but courage.

Queen Esther did not seek the palace. Yet Mordechai’s words still echo:

“ומי יודע אם לעת כזאת הגעת למלכות”
Who knows if it was not for this very moment that you were made queen?

Position is not accidental. Platform is not neutral. It is entrusted.

If Billi Marcus reflects Terumah — building sanctuaries through generosity — then Montana and Melanie reflect Esther — stepping into royalty and role for the sake of the Jewish people.

The Mishkan was built through gold and silver. But its true materials were courage and generosity. Last night, we saw both. Builders who create institutions that heal and sustain, and voices who project pride and strengthen identity.

The Jewish future requires both. It requires roots. And it requires wings.

When Jewish women give, sanctuaries rise. When Jewish women stand tall, a nation finds its voice. That is valor. And last night, we saw it — across generations.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

How to Keep the Flow, Flowin’

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 1:29:00 PM

Dedicated in honor of the marriage of Sara to Levi Solomon

The Torah portion of Mishpatim is known for its detailed civil laws, yet within it appears a deeply personal passage often referred to as Mishpat HaBanos—the framework outlining a husband’s essential obligations to his wife. From these verses flow the three pillars later codified in the Kesuvah: mazon, levush, and onah—food, clothing (including shelter and protection), and intimacy.

These seem purely practical commitments. But in truth, they describe the architecture of a home.

Mazon is nourishment—sustaining life itself.
Levush is dignity and protection—the environment in which life flourishes.
Onah is closeness—emotional and physical intimacy, the bond that transforms coexistence into unity.

Under the chuppah, the groom commits to all three. The question naturally arises: how can anyone guarantee such provision with certainty? The answer lies in the spiritual reality of that sacred moment. The chuppah is a portal of unbounded Divine generosity. An abundant flow of bracha accompanies a new Jewish home at its inception.

Yet the Torah is not only about beginnings—it is about continuity. How is that flow sustained?

Our sages teach that two forces keep the channels of blessing open.

First is simcha—joy. The joy of the bride and groom, and equally the joy of the guests who celebrate with them. Joy is not decorative; it is generative. It expands the vessel that holds blessing. When a wedding is celebrated wholeheartedly, that shared happiness becomes part of the couple’s spiritual foundation. The dancing, the singing, the heartfelt good wishes—they are not fleeting moments. They become enduring channels through which bracha continues to flow.

Second is honor and respect. The Gemara teaches that blessing rests in a home where the wife is honored. Respect creates spiritual alignment; it invites abundance. When dignity and sensitivity define a marriage, they reinforce the original covenant established beneath the chuppah.

What is true within marriage is also true in our relationship with Hashem.

Hashem, as it were, commits Himself to provide us with mazon, levush, and onah.

Mazon on a spiritual level is Torah as nourishment—its revealed teachings that feed our intellect and guide our daily lives. Just as physical food becomes part of the body, Torah internalized becomes part of who we are.

Levush is the protective garment of mitzvos and the deeper teachings of Chassidus, which clothe our lives with meaning and shield us with perspective. They provide spiritual warmth and dignity in a complex world.

Onah is intimacy—the experiential closeness we feel in tefillah, in moments of sincerity, in the quiet awareness that Hashem is not distant but present. It is the bond that turns observance into relationship.

Marriage, then, is a living metaphor for covenant. And covenant is sustained through joy and honor.

Now that the wedding celebration has passed, we are filled with gratitude. To every friend, family member, and guest who traveled, danced, sang, and rejoiced with us—thank you. Your joy did not end beneath the chuppah or on the dance floor. Our sages teach that the happiness of those who gladden the bride and groom becomes a conduit for ongoing blessing in their lives. Your simcha helped open the channels of bracha—and continues to sustain them.

May the shared joy we experienced together ripple outward, strengthening Sara and Levi’s home and drawing continued abundance from Above.

And may we all merit to experience in our own lives the full measure of mazon, levush, and intimacy—both in our homes and in our relationship with Hashem—sustained through joy, dignity, and enduring blessing.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

Artificial Intelligence, Parshas Yisro and the World the Prophets Already Envisioned

Thu, 5 Feb 2026 10:33:00 PM

If you listen carefully to the conversation around artificial intelligence, you’ll hear something striking: the greatest uncertainty is no longer how powerful AI will become, but what human beings will do once power, production, and even healing are no longer our central struggle.

That question is not modern at all. It is prophetic.

We are watching an AI revolution that many economists describe in almost messianic terms. Leading projections suggest that AI and automation will soon handle the majority of manufacturing, logistics, administration, diagnostics, and even elements of creative work. Scarcity—at least technologically—appears less inevitable. Medical AI is moving toward early diagnosis, predictive treatment, and personalized care. Economists are openly discussing a post-labor or radically reduced-labor economy.

And then comes the same question, voiced with both hope and anxiety:
If there is abundance, if there is no struggle to survive, what will people do all day?

The Rambam (Maimonidies) already answered that—explicitly.

In the Laws of Kings, in his description of the era of Moshiach, the Rambam writes words that sound uncannily like a description of a post-AI civilization:

“In that era there will be no famine and no war, no jealousy and no competition, for goodness will flow in abundance and all delights will be as freely available as dust.”

Pause on that.
No jealousy.
No competition.
No war.
Abundance without struggle.

This is not mystical poetry. It is a sociological description of a world in which scarcity—material and psychological—has been removed. A world where human energy is no longer consumed by survival, dominance, or accumulation.

And then the Rambam asks the same question the economists are now asking: So what happens next?

His answer is breathtaking in its simplicity:

“The occupation of the entire world will be solely to know G-d—
לֵדַעַת אֶת ה׳ בִּלְבַד.”

Not “to believe,” not “to obey,” but loda’as—to know.

Da’as in Torah does not mean information. It means intimate, internalized awareness. The kind of knowing that reshapes who you are. The same word used for the deepest human relationship—“V’ha’adam yada es Chava”—is used here to describe humanity’s relationship with Hashem.

This is where Parshas Yisro becomes essential.

At Sinai, something unprecedented occurred. The Torah describes the revelation with the words “Atah hor’eisa loda’as”—You were shown, in order to know. Sinai was not just the giving of commandments; it was the beginning of a global process of da’as Elokus—of G-d becoming known, not merely believed in.

Until Sinai, spirituality was largely intuitive or elite. After Sinai, knowledge of G-d entered history as a public, shared, structured reality. The Ten Commandments didn’t just tell us what to do; they realigned what humanity is for.

And now look again at the AI revolution.

AI excels at pattern recognition, optimization, prediction, and execution. It is increasingly removing friction from the world: friction in production, friction in medicine, friction in logistics, friction in access to information. In Rambam’s language, it is a technology that—intentionally or not—pushes civilization toward a state of “shefa metzuyah”, flowing abundance.

But technology alone cannot define purpose. That vacuum is exactly what the Rambam describes being filled in the era of Moshiach—not with boredom or escapism, but with da’as.

In other words, the prophets and the Rambam were not describing a supernatural escape from reality. They were describing a mature civilization—one in which external problems no longer dominate, allowing humanity to finally turn inward and upward.

This is why the timing of Siyum HaRambam - Conclusion of the Annual cycle of Rambam study this week, alongside Parshas Yisro feels anything but coincidental.

The Rebbe instituted daily Rambam study to unify the Jewish people around a single body of Torah knowledge, day by day, law by law—training us for a world in which da’as, not survival, becomes the primary occupation. A world where knowing Hashem is not the hobby of mystics, but the central calling of humanity.

AI may automate labor.
It may reduce competition.
It may create abundance.

But only Torah can answer the question: What is abundance for?

Parshas Yisro gives the beginning of the answer at Sinai. Rambam’s Laws of Kings gives the end of the story. And our moment in history—standing between them—is not accidental.

The technology is arriving.
The blueprint was given millennia ago.

Our task is to make sure that the age of intelligence becomes the age of da’as—until the world itself fulfills its purpose, and “the earth will be filled with the knowledge of Hashem as the waters cover the sea,” with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our days.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

The Last Hostage, and the Song That Refuses to Die

Thu, 29 Jan 2026 2:15:00 PM

The splitting of the sea, the downfall of Egypt, and the birth of Jewish song, the Torah portion of B’shalach read this week, is action packed. But beneath the drama lies a quieter, enduring lesson—the power of words and the power of faith, and how deeply intertwined the two truly are.

I was reminded of this recently in a very ordinary setting. I had breakfast with a friend who shared something subtle but important. Something I had once said—a tongue-in-cheek comment about myself, entirely non-malicious and not hurtful to anyone (but me) —was overheard by someone else and taken at face value, rather than in the lighthearted way it was intended. Without tone or context, even self-directed words can be misunderstood.

It was a helpful reminder of how delicate words are. Even when there is no ill intent, and even when the comment is about ourselves, words can land very differently than we imagine. How careful we must be—not only with what we say, but with how it may be heard.

That sensitivity to words takes on far deeper meaning in moments of life and loss.

A number of years ago, Ahuva’s uncle passed away suddenly—just one week before his daughter’s wedding. The family experienced something almost unimaginable: they went straight from sitting shiva to celebrating the wedding.

This week, in the study of the Daily Rambam (Maimonidies), we learned a striking halachah/law.The Rambam teaches that Moses instituted two parallel seven-day cycles in Jewish life: seven days of mourning for loss, and seven days of rejoicing—Sheva Brachot—after a wedding.

The Rebbe highlighted the profound message embedded in this structure: the Torah gives full space to grief—but it insists that grief is not the final word. Mourning gives way to joy. Sometimes that transition takes time. And sometimes, life demands that it be immediate—rising straight from shiva into marriage.

During the shiva, I shared this thought with the bride. Years later, she reminded me of that moment. She told me that those words—shared quietly, without fanfare—gave her the strength to do the impossible: to rise from the raw pain of losing her father and walk forward into her wedding.

What felt like a simple insight in the moment became enduring strength. Another reminder of how words—sometimes spoken almost in passing—can leave an indelible imprint.

That same powerful juxtaposition of grief and faith was on display this week with the discovery of Ron Gvili, the last remaining hostage. In an extraordinarily moving scene, the soldiers who found him did not stand in silence. They joined hands in a circle and sang Ani Maamin—“I believe with complete faith in the coming of Mashiach.”

It was not denial of pain. It was defiance of despair.

Those words gave voice to the Jewish experience of exile itself: Jews hated, slaughtered, kidnapped—and yet holding fast to the belief that this reality will end. That Mashiach will come. That the world will know peace—peace within itself, peace with the Jewish people, and peace in our homeland, the Land of Israel.

This brings us to the heart of Parshat B’shalach.

When the sea splits, the Torah says, “Az yashir Moshe”—Then Moshe will sing. Strikingly, the verse is written in the future tense. Our sages explain that this alludes to Techiyat HaMeitim, the resurrection of the dead. The song at the sea was not only gratitude for past salvation—it was a declaration of future redemption.

Faith is not passive. Faith has a voice.

This message resonates even more deeply this week as we also commemorated Yud Shvat—the day marking the passing of the Previous Rebbe and the moment when the Rebbe formally assumed leadership.

In his first maamar/Chassidic Discourse, Basi L’Gani, the Rebbe articulated the mission of our generation: to restore the world to what it once was—G-d’s garden. Not to escape the world, but to transform it. To bring the Divine Presence back into the very places from which it had been driven away through human failure.

A garden is not restored through grand gestures alone. It is cultivated patiently—through careful speech, thoughtful actions, and faith expressed again and again. A careless word can damage that garden. A word of encouragement, perspective, or belief can restore it.

Parshat B’shalach teaches us that words are never neutral. They either advance the world toward being G-d’s garden—or delay its restoration.

A comment spoken lightly—even about ourselves—can echo beyond its moment. A word shared at the right time can carry someone from grief to joy. And a song of faith, sung at the edge of loss, can split seas that still lie ahead.

May we choose our words with care, speak faith even when it feels fragile, and take our part in restoring the world to what it was always meant to be—a place of harmony, holiness, and peace.

And may we soon merit the day when Az yashir becomes present tense once again, with the coming of Mashiach, speedily in our days.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom
Rabbi Ruvi New