BH In the wake of the horrific Sydney massacre, the Jewish world experienced a familiar and painful paradox: trauma alongside an almost inexplicable resilience. Grief, shock, and vulnerability were real and present. And yet, almost immediately, another reality emerged. Chabad centers around the world reported larger crowds than ever at public menorah lightings. Locally, we saw the same phenomenon—record numbers at all our Chanukah events, filling public spaces with light, song, and Jewish pride.
It is a pattern as old as our people.
Chanukah itself gives language to this moment. The miracle was not only that a small jug of oil burned longer than expected. It is that oil emerges only when the olive is crushed. Left untouched, an olive remains intact but unrevealing. Under pressure, something deeper is released.
Throughout Jewish history, moments of crushing—exile, persecution, violence—have not extinguished us. Instead, they have revealed our inner “oil”: an essential faith, identity, and connection to G-d that cannot be broken. When external layers are stripped away, something indestructible rises to the surface.
This week’s Torah portion, Parshas Vayigash, introduces us to the forerunner of this spiritual dynamic: Yosef. Few figures in Tanach were as relentlessly “crushed” by life as Yosef. Orphaned at a young age, betrayed and sold by his brothers, falsely accused by his master’s wife, and forgotten in prison—his life reads like a sequence of injustice and isolation.
And yet, when Yosef finally reveals himself to his brothers, he reframes his entire story with breathtaking clarity: “Ki l’michyah shlachani Elokim lifneichem” — It was for sustenance that G-d sent me ahead of you.
Yosef does not deny the pain. He does not minimize the trauma. But he recognizes something deeper: every crushing moment was part of a Divine shlichus. His resilience was not accidental; it flowed from an essential trust that G-d was present even in the darkness.
This same idea lies at the heart of Hei Teves, the day we celebrate Didan Notzach—the victory in Federal Court as to the ownership of the Rebbe’s library. An affirmation that Torah does not belong to individuals, families, or private collections, but to the entire Jewish people. Hei Teves followed years of struggle and uncertainty, yet out of that pressure emerged clarity: Torah lives only when it is shared, learned, and lived openly. Once again, crushing led to revelation.
As we move forward, this theme takes on deeply personal meaning. On January 25, when we gather for the Yossi Green concert, the date coincides with the shloshim of those murdered in Sydney. That evening, we will be launching The Souls of Sydney Project, a communal initiative inviting people to honor their memories through acts of mitzvah and light—transforming loss into living legacy.
Sydney shook us. It hurt us. It reminded us of our vulnerability. But Chanukah revealed something deeper: the Jewish soul responds to darkness not by retreating, but by shining brighter. When threatened, we gather. When wounded, we light. When crushed, our oil flows.
We are bruised, but unbroken.
And our light will continue to rise higher, wider and deeper.
Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New 
Rabbi's Blog
Crushed, Yet Unbroken
A Joyful Ending: The Legacy of Saul Berkov & Chanukah: The Joyful Seal of Our Judgment
Dear Friends,
The High Holidays set many things in motion. On Rosh Hashanah we stand before the King; on Yom Kippur we are purified and forgiven; on Sukkot we rejoice, and Hoshanah Rabbah the last day of Sukkot, the verdict of our judgement is traditionally “delivered.” But the Bat Ayin (Rabbi Avraham Dov Ber of Avritch, a leading Chassidic master who later became the rabbi of Tzfas; 1765–1840) reveals a breathtaking insight: the true demonstration of our verdict comes three months later - on Chanukah.
He bases this on the story recorded in this week’s Torah portion Vayeisev, of Tamar, who was wrongly suspected of immoral behavior after her encounter with Yehudah. The Torah says, “Vayehi kimishlosh chodashim” - three months later, when her pregnancy became visible, she was brought out to be judged.
But it was precisely at that three-month moment - when all seemed incriminating - that Tamar produced the two objects proving her innocence: the seal and the cord and the staff. Her righteousness, hidden until then, suddenly shone forth. Tamar’s inner truth was not only judged - it was revealed.
The Bat Ayin explains that the same spiritual dynamic occurs with the Jewish people. Three months after Rosh Hashanah, a voice of accusation arises in Heaven. The Satan argues before the Almighty Judge: “The inspiration of the High Holidays has faded. The awe has worn off. Look—Your people have already slipped away.” This is the Tamar-moment of the Jewish soul.
And just as Tamar revealed her “seal, cord and staff” to demonstrate her fidelity, we reveal ours through the observance of Chanukah - three months after the Days of Awe. The seal evokes the chotam -seal of the Kohen Gadol, symbol of our loyal identity. The wick (p’tillah) evokes the flame of steadfast devotion—still burning, still rising. Every candle is our testimony: The fire is still alive. The staff is the Menorah - alluded to by the Hebrew word “Kli” - untensil/Menorah, the same numerically as staff. The inspiration did not fade. We remain faithful and strong.
Thus Chanukah becomes the final expression of our Rosh Hashanah judgment - the moment the Jewish people prove that the commitments of Tishrei were not temporary emotions, but enduring truths, now shining as light.
And fittingly, Chanukah is joyous. Chassidim always conclude the solemn High Holiday prayers with a joyful niggun, signaling confidence in a favorable verdict. Chanukah continues that same joy—the joy of a vindicated judgment.
On Monday, erev Yud-Tes Kislev - another day of light after darkness—I officiated at the funeral of Saul Berkov, a proud Russian Jew whose life embodied perseverance and faith.
Two years ago, doctors believed he was at the end. I visited him in the hospital. He held my hand, and we sang together. His favorite song was “Nyet, Nyet Nikavo.” Many know the melody; fewer know the meaning. Its words - simple yet defiant - declare:
“There is no one besides Him.” No force, decree, prediction, or circumstance governs the Jewish soul - only G-d.
As I looked into Saul’s eyes that day, I saw unmistakable life - fire refusing to go out. With all due respect to medical expertise, I told his family: this is not his end.
And it wasn’t. Saul lived two more full years.
At his funeral, his daughter Sofie asked if it would be appropriate to sing “Nyet, Nyet Nikavo.”
So as his casket descended to its resting place, we sang.
We sang a song of faith as his soul ascended.
It was a joyous ending in the deepest sense - not happiness, but profound confidence in a favorable eternal judgment. Much like Chanukah, when our inner light pushes back against doubt and accusation, Saul’s final moments were filled not with despair but with song - testimony to a life of fidelity and unbroken fire.
Marching Toward Geulah in Song
Chanukah teaches that the Jewish story ends not with fear but with song; not with uncertainty, but with radiant confidence. We seal our judgment not with ink but with flame. We answer prosecution not with arguments but with light.
Saul’s final escort was a living Chanukah—the wick, the melody, the unshakable faith that “Nyet, Nyet Nikavo.”
As we enter Chanukah, may we take that song into our homes, our hearts, and our world. And may it become the niggun with which we march—joyfully, steadily—toward the light of the final Geulah, speedily in our days.
Wishing you a joyous and, luminescent Chanukah.
Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New
How Contemporary Psychology Is Beginning to Echo Chassidic Insight. What Yud Tes Kislev Means for You.
Dear Friends,
Contemporary psychology and mental-health research increasingly validates what the Alter Rebbe (Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi - founder of Chabad) taught more than two centuries ago: that sustainable, healthy inner life comes not from suppressing or denying our feelings, but from guiding our emotions with consciousness and introspection.
A growing body of research - from “contemplative science” to spiritually integrated psychotherapy - finds that practices which combine awareness, reflection and spirituality can offer real psychological benefits. For example, a comprehensive review of mindfulness-based practices concluded that mindfulness leads to “increased subjective well-being, reduced psychological symptoms” and improved emotional regulation.
Similarly, a 2024 paper that surveyed recent studies on spiritual and religious practices found that spiritual engagement - whether prayer, meditation, reflection, or community ritual - plays a critical role in supporting mental health, especially under stress.
Closer still to the Alter Rebbe’s method: research on “spiritually integrated” therapeutic approaches - where cognitive or behavioral techniques are coupled with a person’s religious or spiritual framework - shows that clients often fare better than in strictly secular therapy. In other words: when mind and spirit work together, healing is deeper, more lasting, more aligned with one’s truest self.
These findings echo the Alter Rebbe’s path: a long-term inner balancing, not built on sudden ecstatic highs, but on consistent intellectual and spiritual discipline.
Why Many Are Again Turning to Tanya and Chassidus
It is no surprise, then, that more and more people today — especially those navigating emotional distress, spiritual emptiness, or the dissonance between “inner and outer self”— are rediscovering Tanya and the broader Chassidic teachings. Where secular therapy sometimes feels empty or fragmented, Chassidus offers a holistic approach: a framework that values thought, feeling, spirituality, community, and meaning — all together.
In a time of rapid change, ambiguity, and mental-health challenges, the clarity and depth of Chassidic psychology resonates. Rather than treating fear, emptiness, or anxiety as “disorders,” it treats them as signals — windows into the soul crying out for alignment. People are drawn to the Chassidic path for guidance that is both intellectual and soulful, individual and communal.
From Yaakov’s Fear to Yud-Tes Kislev: A Path to Inner Liberation
When the Torah in this week's portion describes Yakov’s fear of encountering his brother Eisav, it says: “Vayira Yaakov meod vayetzar lo” - “and Yakov was very afraid, and he was distressed”. What he was acknowledging was not his fear of his brother, but the inner fear of unworthiness before Hashem. And when Rivkah Imeinu cried out “Lamah zeh anochi?” - “what’s going on with me?” she too was confronting inner discord. Their response was not avoidance — it was a turning inward, seeking Hashem, trying to realign soul and spirit.
That journey, that struggle — is precisely what Chassidus and Tanya are about. And it is why the 19 Kislev holiday — the liberation celebrated on Yud-Tes Kislev — has become so meaningful for us: not only as the physical freedom of the Alter Rebbe, but as the liberation of our inner selves.
To help us tap into that inner freedom, we are gathering this Monday night for a special Yud-Tes Kislev Farbrengen with Rabbi Nir Menussi, a highly respected scholar and author from Israel, whose work is characterized by its unique combination of scholarly knowledge, psychological depth, and clear, lucid explanations. He will share his personal spiritual journey, speak about what he calls “the next Chassidic revolution,” and explore how Tanya and Chassidus today can help us find balance, purpose, and inner peace in a chaotic world.
You are invited — to bring your questions, your fears, your inner conflicts, your desire to go higher. Let’s journey together.
Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New