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

Israel Elects Its Leaders. But Are We Leading?

Thu, 22 Oct 2026 2:20:00 PM

Dear Friends,

As Israel prepares to go to the polls, the debate centers on who should lead the country. This week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha, invites us to consider an even more fundamental question: What is the country here for?

Long before political parties, international resolutions or modern Zionism, G‑d told Avraham to journey to the land He would show him. There, G‑d made a promise: “To your seed I will give this land.”

Here is the original case for Israel. A Divine promise. An inheritance. And a mission.

In his recent United Nations address, Prime Minister Netanyahu declared: “We are going to win because we have no choice.”

Those words express courage and determination. But “we have no choice” describes what circumstances force us to do. It leaves unspoken what G‑d has entrusted us to accomplish.

That distinction matters, because so much of our hasbara—our explanation of Israel to the world—rests on victimhood. We were persecuted. We were stateless. Six million of our people were murdered. We needed a homeland where we could finally protect ourselves.

Our suffering is real. The need for security is unquestionable. But making suffering the foundation of our claim leaves us trapped in a competition over victimhood. Someone else can always claim to suffer more. The conversation becomes a contest of images, casualty figures and accusations, with the charge of “genocide” in Gaza deployed to turn Jewish self-defense into an indictment of Jewish sovereignty.

Our right to Israel cannot depend on winning that contest.

It predates the Holocaust. It predates the United Nations. It rests on G‑d’s covenant with Avraham.

Significantly, the Torah does not frame Avraham’s journey as an escape from persecution. G‑d calls him toward a purpose. Alongside the promise of nationhood comes a universal vision: through Avraham, all the families of the earth will be blessed.

The land would be the base from which that blessing could reach the world. Here, Avraham’s descendants would fulfill their calling as G‑d’s ambassadors: building a society shaped by holiness, justice, compassion and responsibility, and bringing awareness of the Creator into everyday life.

This must be the foundation of our message.

We belong in Israel because G‑d gave us this land. We have a responsibility to defend it and a responsibility to fulfill its purpose. The Divine gift and the Divine mandate belong together.

As Israelis choose their leaders, Lech Lecha calls all of us back to the conviction that must guide our future.

“We have no choice” expresses the determination to survive.

“We have a calling” expresses the reason we are here.

The promise gives us our claim. The mission gives us our direction.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Arks of New York

Thu, 15 Oct 2026 3:07:00 PM

Dear Friends,

I went to sleep in a dormitory in Brooklyn one night, and when I woke up the next morning, I was a grandfather!

At least, that's how it felt.

This past Shabbos, I had the extraordinary pleasure of reuniting with eighteen former yeshivah classmates in New York, for a Shabbos at the Ohel, marking forty years since the historic events surrounding “Hey Teves” - the battle over the ownership of the Chabad library that began in 1985, and the judge's historic verdict in 1987. It was a formative experience that we all witnessed and lived through together.

For a few precious hours, the decades melted away. We were young students again, reliving the extraordinary events that shaped our lives.

One of the central messages the Rebbe emphasized during that period was that the life of a tzaddik (righteous individual) is essentially spiritual, and therefore eternal.

Forty years later, the continued vitality and extraordinary global growth of Chabad, more than three decades after the Rebbe's physical passing, are a powerful testament to that truth.

On Sunday, after the Shabbos together with my classmates, Ahuva joined me in NY for a two day vacay. During two of our New York site seeing stops I discovered unexpected connections to this week's Parshah.

We visited the 9/11 Memorial Museum, an experience that was profoundly moving on many levels. Among the many stories of tragedy and heroism, one in particular captured my imagination.

As the Twin Towers collapsed and Lower Manhattan descended into chaos, hundreds of thousands of people found themselves trapped, with roads, bridges, and tunnels closed. Many fled toward the waterfront, desperately seeking a way out.

Then came an extraordinary radio announcement from the United States Coast Guard, calling on all available boats to assist in the evacuation.

And they came.

Ferries, tugboats, fishing vessels, private boats. Ordinary captains and crews, many of them civilians, turned their vessels toward the smoke and destruction, risking their own safety to rescue complete strangers.

What followed became the largest maritime evacuation in American history, with an estimated 300,000 to 500,000 people transported to safety in less than nine hours. It even surpassed the famous evacuation of Dunkirk during World War II.

The interviews with some of these boat captains were especially touching. Their message was remarkably simple: If we could save even one life, it would all have been worthwhile.

And suddenly, I was thinking about Noach and how thousands of years earlier, Noach had built a Teivah, an ark, to save life from a devastating flood. But there was something particularly remarkable about these modern-day arks. Noach was commanded to build an ark to save himself, his family, and the creatures entrusted to him. These New York boat captains, however, voluntarily sailed directly into danger to save people they had never met.

They weren't simply seeking shelter from the storm. They were becoming a shelter for others. They had transformed their boats into arks of compassion.

Our next stop was Ellis Island, a place I had long wanted to visit.

For millions of immigrants, including countless Jews fleeing persecution and poverty, Ellis Island represented the gateway to a new world. Among the exhibits, I was particularly moved by photographs documenting the establishment of a kosher kitchen for Jewish immigrants, and even a Passover Seder.

We've all heard stories of Jewish immigrants who supposedly discarded their tefillin into New York Harbor, believing their religious traditions had no place in the New World. But these photographs told another story. They spoke of Jews who had crossed turbulent oceans, leaving entire worlds behind, yet remained determined to carry their Jewish identity into the future.

Ellis Island, too, was a kind of Teivah—a gateway through which people emerged from the turbulent waters of the Old World, carrying the seeds of new beginnings.

The Baal Shem Tov offers a profound interpretation of G-d's instruction to Noach, Bo el haTeivah—"Enter the ark." The Hebrew word Teivah also means "word." Enter the words of Torah and prayer, he teaches, and discover a spiritual sanctuary amid life's turbulent waters.

Among those who escaped war-torn Europe was the Rebbe, who arrived in America with the Rebbetzin in 1941. He would go on to dedicate his life to building spiritual arks across the globe, reconnecting Jews with the timeless words of Torah and prayer.

But the Rebbe's vision went beyond building sanctuaries in which Jews could find refuge. It was about inspiring them to venture outward, to reach those who were spiritually adrift, and to bring them aboard.

In that sense, the mission of Chabad combines both dimensions of the Teivah: preserving the spiritual treasures of our past while sailing toward others to help secure their future.

And then came one final encounter.

On our flight home from JFK to Fort Lauderdale, I found myself seated beside an Israeli couple. As we prepared for takeoff, I asked the husband if he would like to recite Tefilas Haderech, the prayer for travelers. I handed him my phone, and he read the prayer.

We began chatting. When he learned that I was a Chabad shliach, his face lit up. He told me that he had lived in New York for forty years, that he loved Chabad, and that, in his words, "Chabad is the only future of the Jewish people."

Then, with unmistakable pride, he produced a treasured photograph of himself receiving a dollar from the Rebbe, sometime around 1989 or 1990. More than thirty-five years later, he was still carrying that moment with him.

I thought about our reunion. I thought about Ellis Island. I thought about those heroic boat captains on 9/11. And I thought about Noach's ark.

Here was a man carrying a treasured encounter with the Rebbe across the decades, just as earlier generations had carried their Jewish inheritance across the oceans. And here we were, thousands of feet above the earth, having just entered the Teivah together through the words of a simple prayer.

Perhaps that is the enduring message of Noach's ark. The purpose of a Teivah is not simply to survive the flood. It is to preserve life, to reach out to others, and ultimately to build a better world when the waters recede.

Forty years after Hey Teves, the Rebbe's message of eternal spiritual life was sitting right beside me.

Alive. Vibrant. And still taking flight.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Three Years After October 7: Are We Brighter?

Wed, 7 Oct 2026 4:23:00 PM

Dear Friends,

A week and a half after October 7, as part of a delegation of 25 Chabad Rabbis (including Rabbi Eli Schlanger OBM), I visited Kibbutz Shefayim, just outside Tel Aviv, which had become a temporary home for survivors from Kfar Aza.

I will never forget the scene.

In a large outdoor area were circles of chairs everywhere. From a distance, it almost looked like a picnic—families and groups sitting together in the Israeli sunshine.

But as I got closer, I realized what I was looking at.

They were sitting shiva.

Circle after circle. Family after family. People mourning parents, children, siblings and friends murdered just days earlier.

I approached one man who had just begun sitting shiva for his mother. I wasn't sure what one could possibly say. So I said to him in Hebrew, essentially, “We came just to be with you—to sit with you where you are.”

His response has remained with me ever since:

“I don't need you to be with me in the dark place where I am. I need you to lift me up. Lift us up.”

Three years after October 7, those words feel more relevant than ever.

This week's Torah portion, Bereishis, describes the sun and moon initially as “the two great luminaries.” Yet shortly afterward, one becomes the “great luminary” and the other the “small luminary.”

It brings to mind a childhood story about the Rebbe Rashab (Sholom Dov Ber) and his older brother, Reb Zalman Aharon. Although Reb Zalman Aharon was older, his younger brother was taller. So he dug a hole and had his brother stand inside it, making himself appear taller.

Their father, the Rebbe Maharash, told him: “That's not how you become taller. If you want to be taller, stand on a chair. You don't make yourself higher by lowering someone else.”

There is a profound lesson here for this moment.

The explosion of antisemitism since October 7 demands that we expose it, confront it and defend ourselves against it. But there is also a danger that we become so consumed with documenting the darkness that the darkness itself begins to define our Jewish identity.

Our response cannot only be to expose their darkness.

It must be to increase our light.

Perhaps the rise in antisemitism is also a call for us to become more luminescent Jews—more visible and unapologetic in our Jewishness, more passionate about Torah and mitzvos, and more determined to bring Jewish values of holiness, goodness, morality and compassion into the world.

The Torah's first model of gadol—greatness—is the “great luminary.” True greatness means becoming a maor, a source of light. If we possess light, our responsibility is to radiate it—to illuminate others until they, too, can shine.

The Torah calls upon the Jewish people to be “a light unto the nations.” That mission is not suspended when the world becomes darker.

Perhaps that is precisely when it becomes most urgent.

Three years after October 7, we certainly need to remain vigilant about antisemitism. But let us become at least as passionate about pro-Semitism—about what we love, what we believe, what we contribute, and the light Judaism asks us to bring into the world.

And perhaps there could be no more appropriate time for that message than Shabbos Bereishis — the Shabbos when we begin the Torah again from its very first word: Bereishis, “In the beginning.”

After everything we have experienced these past three years, the Torah invites us not only to remember, but to begin again. A new cycle. A new opportunity. Not to allow October 7 to define us by what was done to us, but by what it awakened within us.

And significantly, the very first chapter of that new beginning speaks about creating light.

Perhaps that is our Bereishis three years later: to begin again—and to shine brighter.

That man at Shefayim taught me something I have never forgotten.

Sometimes love means sitting with someone in their darkness.

But sometimes the greater gift is to bring them light.

Don't come down into my darkness.
Bring me some of your light.
Lift me up.

Three years after October 7, perhaps that is our calling as well:

Don't merely expose the darkness.

Become more luminous.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Please see the video recap of my post Oct 7 trip to Israel here.

Dance, As You Are!

Fri, 2 Oct 2026 10:27:00 AM

Dear Friends,

Some dates need no explanation. October 7th has become one of them.

Those two words carry grief, horror, courage, and an ongoing ache that belongs to the entire Jewish people. But there is another name for the day on which that tragedy occurred: Simchas Torah.

October 7th tells us when it happened on the secular calendar. Simchas Torah tells us where it struck in our Jewish lives.

In Jewish tradition, we mark our holidays and the anniversaries of our loved ones’ passing by the Hebrew calendar. Those dates connect remembrance to the rhythm of Jewish life. Simchas Torah is therefore a particularly meaningful and appropriate time to remember those taken from us that day and in the days that followed.

And how do we remember?

With prayer. With reverence. With an awareness that behind every name is a whole world: a family, a story, a future that should have been.

On Simchas Torah, we also remember by coming together. By holding the Torah close. By joining the circle. By demonstrating the unity, joy, and resilience that have carried our people through generations.

But what if you don’t feel ready to dance?

Then dance as you are.

Come with your joy, or with your heart still aching. Come with gratitude, questions, hope, or uncertainty. You do not have to resolve everything you are feeling before you can take someone’s hand and join the circle.

Dancing does not erase grief. Sometimes, it gives grief somewhere to go. We carry the memory of those we have lost into the circle with us, affirming that Jewish life will continue—with faith, with love, and with joy.

At Boca Beach Chabad, we will dedicate a hakafah to those who served in the IDF, honoring their courage and commitment to protecting our people. We will also dedicate a hakafah to the memory of those taken from us on October 7th and thereafter. Their memory will be present as we dance, and their families will be in our hearts.

This celebration culminates an extraordinary beginning to 5787. The large crowds, uplifting High Holiday services, heartfelt prayers, and powerful singing filled our shul with energy and inspiration. Beautiful Sukkos dinners and lunches, conversations beneath the schach, and community gatherings have carried that spirit forward. We are off to a flying start.

Now comes Simchas Torah, when all that connection becomes a dance.

We dance with the Torah covered. Our differences in knowledge and observance give way to something we share equally: the Torah belongs to every Jew, and every Jew belongs in the circle.

As You Are is the heart of Boca Beach Chabad. On Simchas Torah, that welcome becomes an invitation to move your feet, lift your spirits, and discover the strength of being together.

Join us Saturday night and Sunday. Come to remember. Come to honor. Come to celebrate.

Dance As You Are.

The circle is waiting for you.

Chag Sameach and Good Yom Tov,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Can We All Fit Under One Roof?

Thu, 24 Sep 2026 2:36:00 PM

Dear Friends,

Every year around this time, an interesting convergence takes place.

As Jews prepare to enter the Sukkah, world leaders converge on New York for the United Nations General Assembly. Representatives of virtually every nation gather under one roof to discuss the challenges facing humanity.

And, inevitably, Israel once again occupies a remarkably prominent place in the conversation.

Perhaps Sukkos offers us a different model for what it means for very different people—and nations—to inhabit one world.

Chassidus teaches that the Sukkah and Noah’s Ark share something profound. Both create a protected space in which radically different inhabitants can coexist. Noah’s Ark contained animals that under normal circumstances would devour one another. Yet inside the Ark, predator and prey lived together peacefully. The Sukkah similarly surrounds everyone within the same embrace. Indeed, the Talmud teaches that “all Israel are fit to sit in one Sukkah.”

How is such coexistence possible?

The prophet Isaiah describes the Messianic era when “the wolf will dwell with the lamb,” and explains why: “For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of G-d as the waters cover the sea.”

The Rebbe Maharash explains that conflict is often a symptom of katnus hadaas—smallness or narrowness of mind. When my world is small, there is room only for my opinion, my perspective, my truth. Someone who disagrees with me doesn't merely see things differently; he threatens the limited space I inhabit.

That brought me back to something I spoke about on Yom Kippur: scarcity versus abundance.

Several people have since told me: “Don't let abundance remain a Yom Kippur sermon.” They are right. It needs to become a sustained call—to an abundance mindset and, even more importantly, to abundance action.

Perhaps daas—perspective and awareness—is where abundance begins.

Scarcity says: If you are right, there is less room for me. If you succeed, somehow I have less. If I acknowledge your perspective, mine has been diminished.

Gadlus hadaas—expansiveness of mind—says: There is room.

Room for conviction without hostility. Room to disagree without disconnecting. Room to celebrate another person's success without feeling diminished by it.

Sukkos then carries that message one step further. The Sukkah does not make us identical. It simply places all of us beneath something greater than ourselves. It is Sukkas Shlomecha — G-d’s “Sukkah of peace.”

And then comes Simchas Torah.

We leave the Sukkah and enter the circle.

We don't celebrate Simchas Torah by opening the Torah and testing who knows the most. We dance with the Torah closed and covered. Scholar and beginner, observant and searching, young and old — the Torah embraces every Jew as you are. You don't first have to become someone else to earn your place in the circle.

And we dance in a circle. A circle has no first and no last, no front row and no back. Every Jew has a place. Every Jew belongs.

From Yom Kippur to Sukkos to Simchas Torah, the message keeps expanding:

There is enough room. Under the Sukkah. Around the circle. Within our community. Within our hearts.

Come beneath the Sukkah. Come join the circle. Come as you are.

Perhaps that is the abundance mindset the world — and the United Nations — could use a little more of.

Good Shabbos and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Ruvi New

The Yom Kippur Reset

Fri, 18 Sep 2026 1:48:00 PM

Dear Friends,

“Teshuvah” can feel like an intimidating word.

Where do you begin? Review an entire year? Identify everything you did wrong? Fix your personality? Become a different person by Yom Kippur?

Reb Zusya of Anipoli offered a remarkably practical alternative.

After hearing a profound teaching from his Rebbe, the Maggid of Mezritch, about the heights a person can reach through teshuvah—return—Reb Zusya declared that such a level seemed beyond him. So he broke the word TESHUVAH into its five Hebrew letters, each representing a verse and a pathway home. The Rebbe included these five steps in Hayom Yom for the days leading toward Yom Kippur.

Think of it as a five-part spiritual reset.

1. ת — Tamim: Be authentic.
“Tamim tihyeh im Hashem Elokecha” — Be wholehearted with G-d.

The first step is authenticity. Stop performing—for others, and perhaps even for yourself. Who am I really? What is working in my life? What isn’t? What do I know needs to change?

We live in a world that makes it remarkably easy to curate an image of ourselves. Temimus asks us to remove the filters. Teshuvah begins not with guilt, but with the courage to be real—with ourselves and with G-d.

2. ש — Shivisi: Find your center.
“Shivisi Hashem l’negdi tamid” — I place G-d before me always.

The Hebrew word shivisi also evokes hishtavus—equanimity, an inner calm that comes from knowing that Hashem is present in every circumstance.

Life pulls us up and down: compliments and criticism, success and disappointment, the email we wanted and the phone call we dreaded. When Hashem is truly “before me always,” I don't have to be emotionally tossed around by every development. There is a center that doesn't move.

Imagine having a spiritual notification running continuously in the background: Hashem is here. In shul, at the office, in traffic, in the difficult conversation. That awareness creates not passivity, but serenity—the ability to respond rather than react.

3. ו — V’ahavta: Repair your relationships.
“V’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha” — Love your fellow as yourself.

Perhaps the most practical Yom Kippur inventory is not between us and Heaven, but between us and other people.

Who have I hurt? Whom have I ignored? Who needs an apology, a phone call, a little more patience? Is there someone I have reduced to a grievance rather than seeing as a fellow soul?

Loving another Jew, the Alter Rebbe teaches, is itself a pathway toward loving G-d. Sometimes the most meaningful teshuvah happens not in the synagogue, but in picking up the phone.

4. ב — B’chol: Look for G-d in your story.
“B’chol derachecha da’eihu” — In all your ways, know Him.

Review the year again—but differently.

Look for the unexpected meeting, the closed door that opened another one, the person who appeared precisely when needed. Train yourself to notice Hashgachah Pratis—Divine Providence.

The Hayom Yom remarkably notes that the person engaged in business may have an advantage here: real life gives us endless opportunities to watch G-d at work. Teshuvah means learning to read our lives not simply as a sequence of events, but as a story in which Hashem is present.

5. ה — Hatzne’a: Do something nobody knows about.
“Hatzne’a leches im Hashem Elokecha” — Walk discreetly with your G-d.

Perhaps no step is more countercultural today.

We live in the hyper-public world of TikTok, Instagram and social media, where almost every experience can become content and every accomplishment can be broadcast. If nobody saw it, photographed it, liked it or shared it—did it even happen?

Hatzne’a leches says: Yes. And perhaps that is precisely what makes it precious.

Choose one mitzvah, one act of kindness, one moment of self-restraint that nobody knows about. Don't post it. Don't mention it. Don't look for recognition. Let it belong exclusively to you and Hashem.

In an age of relentless visibility, there is something profoundly liberating about having a corner of our lives that requires no audience.

Five letters. Five tools:

Be authentic. Find your center. Repair a relationship. Notice Providence. Do something quietly.

And perhaps that is why we call it teshuvah—not becoming somebody else, but returning to the person we were always capable of being.

As we enter Shabbos Shuvah and prepare for Yom Kippur, we don't have to fix everything at once.

We just have to begin the journey home.

Wishing you Shabbat Shalom, Gmar Tov and and an east fast,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Who Inspires the Inspirer?

Fri, 11 Sep 2026 12:41:00 PM

Dear Friends,

This time of year, everyone is looking for inspiration.

We come to Rosh Hashanah hoping that the prayers, the shofar, a stirring sermon, a song—or perhaps just one quiet moment in shul—will awaken something within us and propel us into the new year.

But here is a remarkable thought: G-d, so to speak, is looking for inspiration too.

Our Sages teach that on Rosh Hashanah G-d says, “Tamlichuni aleichem” — “Crown Me as King over you.”

It is an extraordinarily vulnerable expression. G-d is G-d regardless of what we do. Yet He asks us to crown Him. The awakening must come from below. Our sounding of the shofar, our prayers, and above all, our decision to recommit ourselves to Him are what, so to speak, inspire the Divine response and draw forth His kingship for the year ahead.

Apparently, everyone needs inspiration.

And so, as one year makes way for another, I thought I would share some of what inspires me.

First, feedback.

This article goes out each week to thousands of readers. I write, send, and then… But every so often someone stops me and says, “That article really spoke to me.” Someone emails to say they forwarded it to a friend. Someone tells me that a thought they read here changed the way they looked at something.

One response can provide enough fuel to keep writing for weeks. Never underestimate the power of telling someone that something they did made a difference.

I am inspired by the growth of our community — not simply in numbers, but in participation, engagement and support. More people showing up, learning, praying, celebrating, contributing and taking ownership of our shared Jewish future.

I am inspired by the dedication of our staff, who invest enormous energy, creativity and heart—often far beyond what anyone sees—to make everything happen.

And I am inspired by our volunteers. The person greeting someone at the door with a smile. The person helping in the kitchen. Setting up décor. Making calls.. Sometimes the smallest act communicates the biggest message: This matters to me. This is my community.

Perhaps that is the deeper message of Tamlichuni aleichem.

Inspiration is not a one-way street. We look upward to Hashem for inspiration, while Hashem, so to speak, looks to us and says: Show Me what matters to you. Show Me what you are prepared to do. Inspire Me.

As this year draws to a close, I simply want to say thank you.

Thank you for inspiring me. Thank you for inspiring one another. And thank you for inspiring our community to keep reaching higher.

May Hashem, in turn, be “inspired” by all of us and inscribe each and every one of us for a year of abundant blessing — a year of health, happiness and nachas; of prosperity, peace and purpose; and above all, a year in which our people and our world finally experience the ultimate blessing of peace and redemption.

Kesiva Vachasima Tova — may we all be inscribed and sealed for a good and sweet New Year.

Rabbi Ruvi New

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