Rabbi's Blog

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

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